THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


HOLMES  BOOK  CO.  1 
333  S.  Main  St.  I 
Lw  Aneelts 


'  f 


Scottish  Sketches 


By 
AMELIA  E.   BARR 


New  York 
Doclci,  Mead  and  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1883, 

BY 
AMERICAN  TRACT  SOCIETY. 


ps 

/0 
5*3 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT 7 

JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE 101 

FACING  HIS  ENEMY        ....  .  163 

ANDREW  CARGILL'S  CONFESSION        ....      241 

ONE  WRONG  STEP 267 

LILE  DAVIE 309 


2227835 


Crawford's  jSaij?  {Strait 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ALEXANDER  CRAWFORD  sat  reading  a  book 
which  he  studied  frequently  with  a  profound  in- 
terest. Not  the  Bible :  that  volume  had  indeed 
its  place  of  honor  in  the  room,  but  the  book  Craw- 
ford read  was  a  smaller  one;  it  was  stoutly  bound 
and  secured  by  a  brass  lock,  and  it  was  all  in  man- 
uscript. It  was  his  private  ledger,  and  it  con- 
tained his  bank  account.  Its  contents  seemed  to 
give  him  much  solid  satisfaction ;  and  when  at 
last  he  locked  the  volume  and  replaced  it  in  his 
secretary,  it  was  with  that  careful  respect  which 
he  considered  due  to  the  representative  of  so  many 
thousand  pounds. 

He  was  in  a  placid  mood,  and  strangely  in- 
clined to  retrospection.  Thoughtfully  fingering 
the  key  which  locked  up  the  record  of  his  wealth, 
he  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  It 
was  a  dreary  prospect  of  brown  moor  and  gray 
sea,  but  Crawford  loved  it.  The  bare  land  and 


8  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

the  barren  mountains  was  the  country  of  the 
Crawfords.  He  had  a  fixed  idea  that  it  always 
had  been  theirs,  and  whenever  he  told  himself — 
as  he  did  this  night — that  so  many  acres  of  old 
Scotland  were  actually  his  own,  he  was  aggres- 
sively a  Scotchman. 

"It  is  a  bonnie  bit  o'  land,"  he  murmured, 
"and  I  hae  done  as  my  father  Laird  Archibald 
told  me.  If  we  should  meet  in  another  warld  I  '11 
be  able  to  gie  a  good  account  o'  Crawford  and 
Traquare.  It  is  thirty  years  to-night  since  he 
gave  me  the  ring  off  his  finger,  and  said,  '  Alex- 
ander, I  am  going  the  way  o'  all  flesh ;  be  a  good 
man,  and  grip  tight. ,'  I  hae  done  as  he  bid  me; 
there  is  ^80,000  in  the  Bank  o'  Scotland,  and 
every  mortgage  lifted.  I  am  vera  weel  pleased 
wi'  mysel'  to-night.  I  hae  been  a  good  holder  o' 
Crawford  and  Traquare." 

His  self-complacent  reflections  were  cut  short 
by  the  entrance  of  his  daughter.  She  stood  be- 
side him,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  with  a 
caressing  gesture.  No  other  living  creature  durst 
have  taken  that  liberty  with  him;  but  to  Craw- 
ford his  daughter  Helen  was  a  being  apart  from 
common  humanity.  She  was  small,  but  very 
lovely,  with  something  almost  Puritanical  in  her 
dainty,  precise  dress  and  carefully  snooded  golden 
hair. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  9 

"Father!" 

"Helen,  my  bird." 

"Colin  is  coming  home.  I  have  just  had  a 
letter  from  him.  He  has  taken  high  honors  in 
Glasgow.  We  '11  both  be  proud  of  Colin,  father." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"He  has  written  a  prize  poem  in  L,atin  and 
Greek,  and  he  is  second  in  mathematics." 

"  Latin  and  Greek  !  Poor  ghostlike  languages 
that  hae  put  off  flesh  and  blood  lang  syne.  Poe- 
try !  Warse  than  nonsense  !  David  and  Solomon 
hae  gien  us  such  sacred  poetry  as  is  good  and 
necessary ;  and  for  sinfu'  love  verses  and  such 
vanities,  if  Scotland  must  hae  them,  Robert 
Burns  is  mair  than  enough.  As  to  mathematics, 
there's  naething  against  them.  A  study  that  is 
founded  on  figures  is  to  be  depended  upon;  it  has 
nae  flights  and  fancies.  You  ken  what  you  are 
doing  wi'  figures.  When  is  this  clever  fellow  to 
be  here  ?' ' 

"He  is  coming  by  the  afternoon  packet  to- 
morrow. We  must  send  the  carriage  to  meet  it, 
for  Colin  is  bringing  a  stranger  with  him.  I  came 
to  ask  you  if  I  must  have  the  best  guest-room 
made  ready." 

"Whafor?" 

"He  is  an  English  gentleman,  from  London, 
father." 


10  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"  And  you  would  put  an  Englishman  in  the 
room  where  the  twa  last  Stuarts  slept?  I'll  not 
hear  tell  o'  it.  I'm  not  the  man  to  lift  a  quarrel 
my  fathers  dropped,  but  I  '11  hae  no  English  body 
in  Prince  Charlie's  room.  Mind  that,  noo !  What 
is  the  man's  name?" 

"Mr.  George  Selwyn." 

" George  Selwyn  !  There's  nae  Scotch  Sel- 
wyns  that  I  ken  o'.  He'll  be  Saxon  altogether. 
Put  him  in  the  East  room." 

Crawford  was  not  pleased  at  his  son  bringing 
any  visitor.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  important 
plans  to  discuss  and  carry  out,  and  he  was  impa- 
tient of  further  delay.  In  the  second,  he  was  in- 
tensely jealous  of  Helen.  Every  young  man  was 
a  probable  suitor,  and  he  had  quite  decided  that 
Farquharson  of  Blair  was  the  proper  husband  for 
her.  Crawford  and  Blair  had  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  in  every  national  quarrel,  and  a  mar- 
riage would  put  the  two  estates  almost  in  a  ring 
fence. 

But  he  went  the  next  day  to  meet  the  young 
men.  He  had  not  seen  his  son  for  three  years, 
and  the  lad  was  an  object  very  near  and  dear  to 
his  heart.  He  loved  him  tenderly  as  his  son,  he 
respected  him  highly  as  the  future  heir  of  Craw- 
ford and  Traquare.  The  Crawfords  were  a  very 
handsome  race  ;  he  was  anxious  that  this,  their 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  n 

thirteenth  representative,  should  be  worthy,  even 
physically,  of  his  ancestors.  He  drew  a  long  sigh 
of  gratification  as  young  Colin,  with  open  hands, 
came  up  to  him.  The  future  laird  was  a  noble- 
looking  fellow,  a  dark,  swarthy  Highlandman, 
with  glowing  eyes,  and  a  frame  which  promised 
in  a  few  years  to  fill  up  splendidly. 

His  companion  was  singularly  unlike  him. 
Old  Crawford  had  judged  rightly.  He  was  a 
pure  Saxon,  and  showed  it  in  his  clear,  fresh 
complexion,  pale  brown  hair,  and  clear,  wide- 
open  blue  eyes.  But  there  was  something  about 
this  young  man  which  struck  a  deeper  and  wider 
sympathy  than  race — he  had  a  heart  beating  for 
all  humanity.  Crawford  looked  at  him  physical- 
ly only,  and  he  decided  at  once,  "There  is  no 
fear  of  Helen."  He  told  himself  that  young  Far- 
quharson  was  six  inches  taller  and  every  way  a  far 
"prettier  man."  Helen  was  not  of  this  opinion. 
No  hero  is  so  fascinating  to  a  woman  as  the  man 
mentally  and  spiritually  above  her,  and  whom  she 
must  love  from  a  distance;  and  if  Crawford  could 
have  known  how  dangerous  were  those  walks 
over  the  springy  heather  and  through  the  still 
pine  woods,  Mr.  Selwyn  would  have  taken  them 
far  more  frequently  alone  than  he  did. 

But  Crawford  had  other  things  to  employ  his 
attention  at  that  time,  and  indeed  the  young  Eng- 


12  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

lish  clergyman  was  far  beyond  his  mental  and 
spiritual  horizon ;  he  could  not  judge  him  fairly. 
So  these  young  people  walked  and  rode  and 
sailed  together,  and  Selwyn  talked  like  an  apos- 
tle of  the  wrongs  that  were  to  be  righted  and  the 
poor  perishing  souls  that  were  to  be  redeemed. 
The  spiritual  warfare  in  which  he  was  enlisted 
had  taken  possession  of  him,  and  he  spoke  with 
the  martial  enthusiasm  of  a  young  soldier  buck- 
ling on  his  armor. 

Helen  and  Colin  listened  in  glowing  silence, 
Helen  showing  her  sympathy  by  her  flushing 
cheeks  and  wet  eyes,  and  Colin  by  the  impatient 
way  in  which  he  struck  down  with  his  stick  the 
thistles  by  the  path  side,  as  if  they  were  the  de- 
mons of  sin  and  ignorance  and  dirt  Selwyn  was 
warring  against.  But  after  three  weeks  of  this 
intercourse  Crawford  became  sensible  of  some 
change  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  home.  When 
Selwyn  first  arrived,  and  Crawford  learned  that 
he  was  a  clergyman  in  orders,  he  had,  out  of  re- 
spect to  the  office,  delegated  to  him  the  conduct 
of  family  worship.  Gradually  Selwyn  had  begun 
to  illustrate  the  gospel  text  with  short,  earnest  re- 
marks, which  were  a  revelation  of  Bible  truth  to 
the  thoughtful  men  and  women  who  heard  them. 

The  laird's  "exercises"  had  often  been  slipped 
away  from,  excuses  had  been  frequent,  absentees 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  13 

usual;  but  they  came  to  listen  to  Selwyn  with  an 
eagerness  which  irritated  him.  In  our  day,  the 
gospel  of  Christ  has  brought  forth  its  last  beau- 
tiful blossom  —  the  gospel  of  humanity.  Free 
schools,  free  Bibles,  Tract  and  City  Missions, 
Hospitals  and  Clothing  Societies,  loving  helps  of 
all  kinds  are  a  part  of  every  church  organization. 
But  in  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing  they  were 
unknown  in  country  parishes,  they  struggled  even 
in  great  cities  for  a  feeble  life. 

The  laird  and  his  servants  heard  some  start- 
ling truths,  and  the  laird  began  to  rebel  against 
them.  A  religion  of  intellectual  faith,  and  which 
had  certain  well-recognized  claims  on  his  pocket, 
he  was  willing  to  support,  and  to  defend,  if  need 
were ;  but  he  considered  one  which  made  him  on 
every  hand  his  brother's  keeper  a  dangerously 
democratic  theology. 

"I'll  hae  no  socialism  in  my  religion,  any 
more  than  I'll  hae  it  in  my  politics,  Colin,"  he 
said  angrily.  "And  if  yon  Mr.  Selwyn  belongs 
to  what  they  call  the  Church  o'  England,  I'm 
inair  set  up  than  ever  wi'  the  Kirk  o'  Scotland ! 
God  bless  her !" 

They  were  sitting  in  the  room  sacred  to  busi- 
ness and  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Laird  Archi- 
bald. Colin  was  accustomed  to  receive  his  fa- 
ther's opinions  in  silence,  and  he  made  no  answer 


14  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

to  this  remark.  This  time,  however,  the  laird 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  presumed  assent  of  si- 
lence; he  asked  sharply,  "What  say  ye  to  that, 
son  Colin?" 

"  I  say  God  bless  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  father, 
and  I  say  it  the  more  heartily  because  I  would 
like  to  have  a  place  among  those  who  serve  her." 

"What  are  ye  saying  now ?" 

"  That  I  should  like  to  be  a  minister.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  no  objections." 

"I  hae  vera  great  objections.  I'll  no  hear 
tell  o'  such  a  thing.  Ministers  canna  mak 
money,  and  they  canna  save  it.  If  you  should 
mak  it,  that  would  be  an  offence  to  your  congre- 
gation ;  if  ye  should  save  it,  they  would  say  ye 
ought  to  hae  gien  it  to  the  poor.  There  will  be 
nae  Dominie  Crawford  o'  my  kin,  Colin.  Will 
naething  but  looking  down  on  the  warld  from  a 
pulpit  sarve  you?" 

' '  I  like  art,  father.  I  can  paint  a  little,  and  I 
love  music." 

"Art!  Painting!  Music!  Is  the  lad  gane 
daft?  God  has  gien  to  some  men  wisdom  and 
understanding,  to  ithers  the  art  o'  playing  on  the 
fiddle  and  painting  pictures.  There  shall  be 
no  painting,  fiddling  Crawford  among  my  kin, 
Colin." 

The  young  fellow  bit  his  lip,   and  his  eyes 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  15 

flashed  dangerously  beneath  their  dropped  lids. 
But  he  said  calmly  enough, 

"What  is  your  own  idea,  father?  I  am  twen- 
ty-two, I  ought  to  be  doing  a  man's  work  of  some 
kind." 

"Just  sae.  That  is  warld-like  talk.  Now 
I  '11  speak  wi'  you  anent  a  grand  plan  I  hae  had 
for  a  long  time. ' '  With  these  words  he  rose,  and 
took  from  his  secretary  a  piece  of  parchment  con- 
taining the  plan  of  the  estate.  "Sit  down,  son 
Colin,  and  I'll  show  you  your  inheritance." 
Then  he  went  carefully  over  every  acre  of  moor 
and  wood,  of  moss  and  water,  growing  enthusias- 
tic as  he  pointed  out  how  many  sheep  could  be 
grazed  on  the  hills,  what  shooting  and  fishing 
privileges  were  worth,  etc.  "And  the  best  is  to 
come,  my  lad.  There  is  coal  on  the  estate,  and  I 
am  going  to  open  it  up,  for  I  hae  the  ready  siller 
to  do  it." 

Colin  sat  silent ;  his  cold,  dissenting  air  irri- 
tated the  excited  laird  very  much. 

"What  hae  ye  got  to  say  to  a'  this,  Colin?" 
he  asked  proudly,  "for  you'll  hae  the  manage- 
ment o'  everything  with  me.  Why,  my  dear  son, 
if  a'  goes  weel — and  it's  sure  to — we'll  be  rich 
enough  in  a  few  years  to  put  in  our  claim  for  the 
old  Earldom  o'  Crawford,  and  you  may  tak  your 
seat  in  the  House  o'  Peers  yet.  The  old  chevalier 


i6  CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT. 

promised  us  a  Dukedom,"  he  said  sadly,  "but 
I  'm  feared  that  will  be  aboon  our  thumb — " 

"Father,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the 
clansmen?  Do  you  think  Highlandmen  who 
have  lived  on  the  mountains  are  going  to  dig 
coal  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  these  men,  who,  un- 
til a  generation  or  two  ago,  never  handled  any- 
thing but  a  claymore,  and  who  even  now  scorn  to 
do  aught  but  stalk  deer  or  spear  salmon,  will  take 
a  shovel  and  a  pickaxe  and  labor  as  coal-miners  ? 
There  is  not  a  Crawford  among  them  who  would 
do  it  I  would  despise  him  if  he  did." 

"There  is  a  glimmer  o'  good  sense  in  what 
you  say,  Colin.  I  dinna  intend  any  Crawford  to 
work  in  my  coal  mine.  Little  use  they  would 
be  there.  I'll  send  to  Glasgow  for  some  Irish 
bodies." 

"And  then  you  will  have  more  fighting  than 
working  on  the  place;  and  you  '11  have  to  build  a 
Roman-catholic  chapel,  and  have  a  Roman  priest 
in  Crawford,  and  you  ken  whether  the  Crawfords 
will  thole  that  or  not." 

"As  to  the  fighting,  I'll  gie  them  no  chance. 
I'm  going  to  send  the  Crawfords  to  Canada.  I 
hae  thought  it  all  out.  The  sheilings  will  do  for 
the  others ;  the  land  I  want  for  sheep  grazing. 
They  are  doing  naething  for  themsel's,  and  they 
are  just  a  burden  to  me.  It  will  be  better  for 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  17 

them  to  gang  to  Canada.  I  '11  pay  their  passage, 
and  I  '11  gie  them  a  few  pounds  each  to  start  them. 
You  must  stand  by  me  in  this  matter,  for  they  '11 
hae  to  go  sooner  or  later. ' ' 

' '  That  is  a  thing  I  cannot  do,  father.  There 
is  not  a  Laird  of  Crawford  that  was  not  nursed  on 
some  clanswoman's  breast.  We  are  all  kin.  Do 
you  think  I  would  like  to  see  Rory  and  Jean 
Crawford  packed  off  to  Canada?  And  there  is 
young  Hector,  my  foster-brother  !  And  old  Ailsa, 
your  own  foster-sister !  Every  Crawford  has  a 
right  to  a  bite  and  a  sup  from  the  Crawford 
land." 

"That  is  a'  bygane  nonsense.  Your  great- 
grandfather, if  he  wanted  cattle  or  meal,  could 
just  take  the  clan  and  go  and  harry  some  South- 
ern body  out  o'  them.  That  is  beyond  our  power, 
and  it's  an  unca  charge  to  hae  every  Crawford 
looking  to  you  when  hunting  and  fishing  fails. 
They  '11  do  fine  in  Canada.  There  is  grand  hunt- 
ing, and  if  they  want  fighting,  doubtless  there  will 
be  Indians.  They  will  hae  to  go,  and  you  will 
hae  to  stand  by  me  in  this  matter." 

"It  is  against  my  conscience,  sir.  I  had  also 
plans  about  these  poor,  half-civilized,  loving  kins- 
men of  ours.  You  should  hear  Selwyn  talk  of 
what  we  might  do  with  them.  There  is  land 
enough  to  give  all  who  want  it  a  few  acres,  and 


1 8  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

the  rest  could  be  set  up  with  boats  and  nets  as 
fishers.     They  would  like  that." 

" Nae  doubt.  But  I  don't  like  it,  and  I  wont 
hae  it.  Mr.  Selwyn  may  hae  a  big  parish  in 
London,  but  the  Crawfords  arena  in  his  congre- 
gation. I  am  king  and  bishop  within  my  ain 
estate,  Colin."  Then  he  rose  in  a  decided  pas- 
sion and  locked  up  again  the  precious  parch- 
ment, and  Colin  understood  that,  for  the  present, 
the  subject  was  dismissed. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

AT  the  very  time  this  conversation  was  in  pro- 
gress, one  strangely  dissimilar  was  being  carried 
on  between  George  Selwyn  and  Helen  Crawford. 
They  were  sitting  in  the  sweet,  old-fashioned  gar- 
den, and  Selwyn  had  been  talking  of  the  work  so 
dear  to  his  heart,  but  a  silence  had  fallen  between 
them.  Then  softly  and  almost  hesitatingly  Helen 
said,  "Mr.  Selwyn,  I  cannot  help  in  this  grand 
evangel,  except  with  money  and  prayers.  May  I 
offer  you  ^300?  It  is  entirely  my  own,  and  it  lies 
useless  in  my  desk.  Will  you  take  it  ?' ' 

"  I  have  no  power  to  refuse  it.  '  You  give  it 
to  God,  durst  I  say  no  ?'  But  as  I  do  not  return 
at  once,  you  had  better  send  it  in  a  check  to  our 
treasurer. ' '  Then  he  gave  her  the  necessary  busi- 
ness directions,  and  was  writing  the  address  of 
the  treasurer  when  the  laird  stopped  in  front  of 
them. 

"Helen,  you  are  needed  in  the  house,"  he 
said  abruptly ;  and  then  turning  to  Selwyn,  he 
asked  him  to  take  a  walk  up  the  hill.  The  young 
man  complied.  He  was  quite  unconscious  of  the 
anger  in  the  tone  of  the  request.  For  a  few  yards 
neither  spoke ;  then  the  laird,  with  an  irritable 


20  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

glance  at  his  placid  companion,  said,  "Mr.  Sel- 
wyn,  fore-speaking  saves  after-speaking.  Helen 
Crawford  is  bespoke  for  young  Farquharson  of 
Blair,  and  if  you  have  any  hopes  o'  wiving  in  my 
house — " 

' '  Crawford,  thank  you  for  your  warning,  but 
I  have  no  thoughts  of  marrying  any  one.  Helen 
Crawford  is  a  pearl  among  women;  but  even  if 
I  wanted  a  wife,  she  is  unfit  for  my  helpmate. 
When  I  took  my  curacy  in  the  East  End  of  Lon- 
don I  counted  the  cost.  Not  for  the  fairest  of  the 
daughters  of  men  would  I  desert  my  first  love — 
the  Christ-work  to  which  I  have  solemnly  dedi- 
cated my  life. ' ' 

His  voice  fell  almost  to  a  whisper,  but  the  out- 
ward, upward  glance  of  the  inspired  eyes  com- 
pletely disconcerted  the  aggressive  old  chieftain. 
His  supposed  enemy,  in  some  intangible  way,  had 
escaped  him,  and  he  felt  keenly  his  own  mistake. 
He  was  glad  to  see  Colin  coming;  it  gave  him  an 
opportunity  of  escaping  honorably  from  a  conver- 
sation which  had  been  very  humiliating  to  him. 
He  had  a  habit  when  annoyed  of  seeking  the  sea- 
beach.  The  chafing,  complaining  waves  suited 
his  fretful  mood,  and  leaving  the  young  men,  he 
turned  to  the  sea,  taking  the  hillside  with  such 
mighty  strides  that  Selwyn  watched  him  with 
admiration  and  astonishment. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  21 

' '  Four  miles  of  that  walking  will  bring  him 
home  in  the  most  amiable  of  moods,"  said  Colin. 
And  perhaps  it  would,  if  he  had  been  left  to  the 
sole  companionship  of  nature.  But  when  he  was 
half  way  home  he  met  Dominie  Tallisker,  a  man 
of  as  lofty  a  spirit  as  any  Crawford  who  ever 
lived.  The  two  men  were  close  friends,  though 
they  seldom  met  without  disagreeing  on  some 
point. 

' '  Weel  met,  dominie  !  Are  you  going  to  the 
Keep?" 

"Just  so,  I  am  for  an  hour's  talk  wi'  that  fine 
young  English  clergyman  you  hae  staying  wi' 
you. ' ' 

"Tallisker,  let  me  tell  you,  man,  you  hae  been 
seen  o'er  much  wi'  him  lately.  Why,  dominie  ! 
he  is  an  Episcopal,  and  an  Arminian  o'  the  vera 
warst  kind." 

"Hout,  laird!  Arminianism  isna  a  conta- 
gious disease.  I'll  no  mair  tak  Arminianism 
from  the  Rev.  George  Selwyn  than  I'll  tak  Tory- 
ism fra  Laird  Alexander  Crawford.  My  theology 
and  my  politics  are  far  beyond  inoculation.  L,et 
me  tell  you  that,  laird." 

"Hae  ye  gotten  an  argument  up  wi'  him, 
Tallisker?  I  would  like  weel  to  hear  ye  twa  at 
it." 

' '  Na,   na ;  he  isna  one  o'  them  that  argues. 


22  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

He  maks  downright  assertions;  every  one  o'  them 
hits  a  body's  conscience  like  a  sledge-hammer. 
He  said  that  to  me  as  we  walked  the  moor  last 
night  that  didna  let  me  sleep  a  wink." 

"  He  is  a  vera  disagreeable  young  man.  What 
could  he  say  to  you  ?  You  have  aye  done  your 
duty." 

u  I  thought  sae  once,  Crawford.  I  taught  the 
bairns  their  catechism ;  I  looked  weel  to  the  spir- 
itual life  o'  young  and  old;  I  had  aye  a  word  in 
season  for  all.  But  maybe  this  I  ought  to  hae 
done,  and  not  left  the  other  undone." 

"You  are  talking  foolishness,  Tallisker,  and 
that 's  a  thing  no  usual  wi'  you." 

"No  oftener  wi'  me  nor  other  folk.  But, 
laird,  I  feel  there  must  be  a  change.  I  hae  gotten 
my  orders,  and  I  am  going  to  obey  them.  You 
may  be  certain  o'  that." 

"I  didna  think  I  would  ever  see  Dominie 
Tallisker  taking  orders  from  a  disciple  o'  Armin- 
ius — and  an  Englishman  forbye  !" 

"I'll  tak  my  orders,  Crawford,  from  any 
messenger  the  Lord  chooses  to  send  them  by. 
And  I'll  do  this  messenger  justice;  he  laid  down 
no  law  to  me,  he  only  spak  o'  the  duty  laid  on 
his  own  conscience ;  but  my  conscience  said 
4  Amen '  to  his — that 's  about  it.  There  has  been 
g  breath  o'  the  Holy  Ghost  through  the  Church  o' 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  23 

England  lately,  and  the  dry  bones  o'  its  ceremo- 
nials are  being  clothed  upon  wi'  a  new  and  won- 
derfu'  life." 

"  Humff!"  said  the  laird  with  a  scornful  laugh 
as  he  kicked  a  pebble  out  of  his  way. 

1 '  There  is  a  great  outpouring  at  Oxford  among 
the  young  men,  and  though  I  dinna  agree  wi' 
them  in  a'  things,  I  can  see  that  they  hae  gotten 
a  revelation. ' ' 

' '  Ou,  ay,  the  young  ken  a'  things.  It  is  aye 
young  men  that  are  for  turning  the  warld  upside 
down.  Naething  is  good  enough  for  them. ' ' 

The  dominie  took  no  notice  of  the  petulant 
interruption.  u  Laird,"  he  said  excitedly,  "  it  is 
like  a  fresh  Epiphany,  what  this  young  Mr. 
Selwyn  says — the  hungry  are  fed,  the  naked 
clothed,  the  prisoners  comforted,  the  puir  wee, 
ragged,  ignorant  bairns  gathered  into  homes  and 
schools,  and  it  is  the  gospel  wi'  bread  and  meat 
and  shelter  and  schooling  in  its  hand.  That  was 
Christ's  ain  way,  you'll  admit  that.  And  while 
he  was  talking,  my  heart  burned,  and  I  bethought 
me  of  a  night-school  for  the  little  herd  laddies  and 
lasses.  They  could  study  their  lessons  on  the 
hillside  all  day,  and  I  '11  gather  them  for  an  hour 
at  night,  and  gie  them  a  basin  o'  porridge  and 
milk  after  their  lessons.  And  we  ought  not  to 
send  the  orphan  weans  o'  the  kirk  to  the  wark- 


24  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

house;  we  ought  to  hae  a  hame  for  them,  and 
our  sick  ought  to  be  better  looked  to.  There  is 
many  another  good  thing  to  do,  but  we'll  begin 
wi'  these,  and  the  rest  will  follow." 

The  laird  had  listened  thus  far  in  speechless 
indignation.  He  now  stood  still,  and  said, 

"I'll  hae  you  to  understand,  Dominie  Tal- 
lisker,  that  I  am  laird  o'  Crawford  and  Traquare, 
and  I  '11  hae  nae  such  pliskies  played  in  either  o' 
my  clachans." 

"If  you  are  laird,  I  am  dominie.  You  ken 
me  weel  enough  to  be  sure  if  this  thing  is  a  mat- 
ter o'  conscience  to  me,  neither  king  nor  kaiser 
can  stop  me.  I  'd  snap  my  fingers  in  King 
George's  face  if  he  bid  me  'stay,'  when  my  con- 
science said  '  go, ' ' '  and  the  dominie  accompanied 
the  threat  with  that  sharp,  resonant  fillip  of  the 
fingers  that  is  a  Scotchman's  natural  expression 
of  intense  excitement  of  any  kind. 

"King  George!"  cried  the  laird,  in  an  un- 
governable temper,  "there  is  the  whole  trouble. 
If  we  had  only  a  Charles  Stuart  on  the  throne 
there  would  be  nane  o'  this  Whiggery." 

"There  would  be  in  its  place  masses,  and 
popish  priests,  and  a  few  private  torture-chambers, 
and  whiles  a  Presbyterian  heretic  or  twa  burned 
at  the  Grass-market.  Whiggery  is  a  grand  thing 
when  it  keeps  the  Scarlet  Woman  on  her  ain 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  25 

seven  hills.  Scotland's  hills  and  braes  can  do 
weel,  weel  without  her." 

This  speech  gave  the  laird  time  to  think.  It 
would  never  do  to  quarrel  with  Tallisker.  If  he 
should  set  himself  positively  against  his  scheme 
of  sending  his  clan  to  Canada  it  would  be  almost 
a  hopeless  one;  and  then  he  loved  and  respected 
his  friend.  His  tall,  powerful  frame  and  his  dark, 
handsome  face,  all  aglow  with  a  passionate  con- 
viction of  right,  and  an  invincible  determination 
to  do  it,  commanded  his  thorough  admiration. 
He  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  said 
calmly, 

"Tallisker,  you'll  be  sorry  enough  for  your 
temper  erelong.  You  hae  gien  way  mair  than 
I  did.  Ye  ken  how  you  feel  about  it." 

"I  feel  ashamed  o'  mysel',  laird.  You'll  no 
lay  the  blame  o'  it  to  my  office,  but  to  Dugald 
Tallisker  his  ain  sel'.  There  's  a  deal  o'  Dugald 
Tallisker  in  me  yet,  laird;  and  whiles  he  is  o'er 
much  for  Dominie  Tallisker." 

They  were  at  the  gate  by  this  time,  and  Craw- 
ford held  out  his  hand  and  said, 

"Come  in,  dominie." 

"No;  I'll  go  hame,  laird,  and  gie  mysel'  a 
talking  to.  Tell  Mr.  Selwyn  I  want  to  see  him. ' ' 


26  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ALAS,  how  often  do  Christ's  words,  "I  come 
not  to  bring  peace,  but  a  sword,"  prove  true. 
George  Selwyn  went  away,  but  the  seed  he  had 
dropped  in  this  far-off  corner  of  Scotland  did  not 
bring  forth  altogether  the  peaceable  fruits  of 
righteousness.  In  fact,  as  we  have  seen,  it  had 
scarcely  begun  to  germinate  before  the  laird  and 
the  dominie  felt  it  to  be  a  root  of  bitterness  between 
them.  For  if  Crawford  knew  anything  he  knew 
that  Tallisker  would  never  relinquish  his  new 
work,  and  perhaps  if  he  yielded  to  any  reasonable 
object  Tallisker  would  stand  by  him  in  his  project. 

He  did  not  force  the  emigration  plan  upon  his 
notice.  The  summer  was  far  advanced ;  it  would 
be  unjustifiable  to  send  the  clan  to  Canada  at  the 
beginning  of  winter.  And,  as  it  happened,  the 
subject  was  opened  with  the  dominie  in  a  very 
favorable  manner.  They  were  returning  from 
the  moors  one  day  and  met  a  party  of  six  men. 
They  were  evidently  greatly  depressed,  but  they 
lifted  their  bonnets  readily  to  the  chief.  There 
was  a  hopeless,  unhappy  look  about  them  that 
was  very  painful. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  27 

' '  You  have  been  unsuccessful  on  the  hills, 
Archie,  I  fear." 

"There's  few  red  deer  left,"  said  the  man 
gloomily.  "It  used  to  be  deer  and  men;  it  is 
sheep  and  dogs  now." 

After  a  painful  silence  the  dominie  said, 

' '  Something  ought  to  be  done  for  those  braw 
fellows.  They  canna  ditch  and  delve  like  an 
Irish  peasant.  It  would  be  like  harnessing  stags 
in  a  plough." 

Then  Crawford  spoke  cautiously  of  his  inten- 
tion, and  to  his  delight  the  dominie  approved  it. 

"  I  '11  send  them  out  in  Read  &  Murray's  best 
ships.  I'll  gie  each  head  o'  a  family  what  you 
think  right,  Tallisker,  and  I'll  put^ioo  in  your 
hands  for  special  cases  o'  help.  And  you  will 
speak  to  the  men  and  their  wives  for  me,  for  it  is 
a  thing  I  canna  bear  to  do." 

But  the  men  too  listened  eagerly  to  the  propo- 
sition. They  trusted  the  dominie,  and  they  were 
weary  of  picking  up  a  precarious  living  in  hunt- 
ing and  fishing,  and  relying  on  the  chief  in  emer- 
gencies. Their  old  feudal  love  and  reverence 
still  remained  in  a  large  measure,  but  they  were 
quite  sensible  that  everything  had  changed  in 
their  little  world,  and  that  they  were  out  of  tune 
with  it.  Some  few  of  their  number  had  made 
their  way  to  India  or  Canada,  and  there  was  a 


28  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

vague  dissatisfaction  which  only  required  a  pros- 
pect of  change  to  develop.  As  time  went  on,  and 
the  laird's  plan  for  opening  the  coal  beds  on  his 
estate  got  known,  the  men  became  impatient  to 
be  gone. 

In  the  early  part  of  March  two  large  ships  lay 
off  the  coast  waiting  for  them,  and  they  went  in 
a  body  to  Crawford  Keep  to  bid  the  chief  "  fare- 
well." It  was  a  hard  hour,  after  all,  to  Crawford. 
The  great  purpose  that  he  had  kept  before  his 
eyes  for  years  was  not  at  that  moment  sufficient. 
He  had  dressed  himself  in  his  full  chieftain's  suit 
to  meet  them.  The  eagle's  feather  in  his  Glen- 
gary  gave  to  his  great  stature  the  last  grace.  The 
tartan  and  philibeg,  the  garters  at  his  knee,  the 
silver  buckles  at  his  shoulder,  belt,  and  shoon,  the 
jewelled  mull  and  dirk,  had  all  to  these  poor  fel- 
lows in  this  last  hour  a  proud  and  sad  signifi- 
cance. As  he  stood  on  the  steps  to  welcome 
them,  the  wind  colored  his  handsome  face  and 
blew  out  the  long  black  hair  which  fell  curling 
on  his  shoulders. 

Whatever  they  intended  to  say  to  him,  when 
they  thus  saw  him  with  young  Colin  by  his  side 
they  were  unable  to  say.  They  could  only  lift 
their  bonnets  in  silence.  The  instincts  and  tra- 
ditions of  a  thousand  years  were  over  them;  he 
was  at  this  moment  the  father  and  the  chief  of 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  29 

their  deepest  affection.  One  by  one  they  ad- 
vanced to  him.  He  pressed  the  hands  of  all. 
Some  of  the  older  men — companions  of  his  youth 
in  play  and  sport — he  kissed  with  a  solemn  ten- 
derness. They  went  away  silently  as  they  came, 
but  every  heart  was  full  and  every  eye  was  dim. 
There  was  a  great  feast  for  them  in  the  clachan 
that  night,  but  it  was  a  sombre  meeting,  and  the 
dominie's  cheerful  words  of  advice  and  comfort 
formed  its  gayest  feature. 

The  next  day  was  calm  and  clear.  The  wo- 
men and  children  were  safely  on  board  soon  after 
noon,  and  about  four  o'clock  the  long  boats  left 
the  shore  full  of  men.  Tallisker  was  in  the  front 
one.  As  they  pulled  away  he  pointed  silently  to 
a  steep  crag  on  the  shingly  beach.  The  chief 
stood  upon  it.  He  waved  his  bonnet,  and  then 
the  long-pent  feelings  of  the  clan  found  vent  in 
one  long,  pitiful  Gallic  lament,  O  hon  a  rie !  O 
/ton  a  rie!  For  a  few  moments  the  boats  lay  at 
rest,  no  man  was  able  to  lift  an  oar.  Suddenly 
Tallisker' s  clear,  powerful  voice  touched  the  right 
chord.  To  the  grand,  plaintive  melody  of  St. 
Mary's  he  began  the  i25th  Psalm, 

"  They  in  the  Lord  that  firmly  trust 

shall  be  like  Sion  hill, 
Which  at  no  time  can  be  removed, 
but  standeth  ever  still. 


30  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

As  round  about  Jerusalem 

the  mountains  stand  alway ; 
The  Lord  his  folk  doth  compass  so 

from  henceforth  and  for  aye." 

And  thus  singing  together  they  passed  from  their 
old  life  into  a  new  one. 

Colin  had  been  indignant  and  sorrowful  over 
the  whole  affair.  He  and  Helen  were  still  young 
enough  to  regret  the  breaking  of  a  tie  which 
bound  them  to  a  life  whose  romance  cast  some- 
thing like  a  glamour  over  the  prosaic  one  of  more 
modern  times.  Both  would,  in  the  unreasonable- 
ness of  youthful  sympathy,  have  willingly  shared 
land  and  gold  with  their  poor  kinsmen;  but  in 
this  respect  Tallisker  was  with  the  laird. 

" It  was  better,"  he  said,  "that  the  old  feudal 
tie  should  be  severed  even  by  a  thousand  leagues 
of  ocean.  They  were  men  and  not  bairns,  and 
they  could  feel  their  ain  feet;"  and  then  he  smiled 
as  he  remembered  how  naturally  they  had  taken 
to  self-dependence.  For  one  night,  in  a  conver- 
sation with  the  oldest  men,  he  said,  "  Crawfords, 
ye  '11  hae  to  consider,  as  soon  as  you  are  gathered 
together  in  your  new  hame,  the  matter  o'  a  domi- 
nie. Your  little  flock  in  the  wilderness  will  need 
a  shepherd,  and  the  proper  authorities  maun  be 
notified. ' ' 

Then  an  old  gray-headed  man  had  answered 


CRAWFORD'S  SAI*.  STRAIT.  31 

very  firmly,  "Dominie,  we  will  elect  our  ain 
minister.  We  hae  been  heart  and  soul,  every 
man  o'  us,  with  the  Relief  Kirk;  but  it  is  ill 
living  in  Rome  and  striving  wi'  the  pope,  and 
sae  for  the  chiefs  sake  and  your  sake  we  hae 
withheld  our  testimony.  But  we  ken  weel  that 
even  in  Scotland  the  Kirk  willna  hirple  along 
much  farther  wi'  the  State  on  her  back,  and  in 
the  wilderness,  please  God,  we'll  plant  only  a 
Free  Kirk." 

The  dominie  heard  the  resolve  in  silence,  but 
to  himself  he  said  softly,  " They •' '//  do!  They'1  II 
do!  They'll  be  a  bit  upsetting  at  first,  maybe, 
but  they  are  queer  folk  that  have  nae  failings." 

A  long  parting  is  a  great  strain;  it  was  a  great 
relief  when  the  ships  had  sailed  quite  out  of  sight. 
The  laird  with  a  light  heart  now  turned  to  his 
new  plans.  No  reproachful  eyes  and  unhappy 
faces  were  there  to  damp  his  ardor.  Everything 
promised  well.  The  coal  seam  proved  to  be  far 
richer  than  had  been  anticipated,  and  those  expert 
in  such  matters  said  there  were  undoubted  indica- 
tions of  the  near  presence  of  iron  ore.  Great  fur- 
naces began  to  loom  up  in  Crawford's  mental  vis- 
ion, and  to  cast  splendid  lustres  across  his  future 
fortunes. 

In  a  month  after  the  departure  of  the  clan,  the 
little  clachan  of  Traquare  had  greatly  changed. 


32  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

Long  rows  of  brick  cottages,  ugly  and  monoto- 
nous beyond  description,  had  taken  the  place  of 
the  more  picturesque  sheilings.  Men  who  seemed 
to  measure  everything  in  life  with  a  two-foot  rule 
were  making  roads  and  building  jetties  for  coal 
smacks  to  lie  at.  There  was  constant  influx  of 
strange  men  and  women — men  of  stunted  growth 
and  white  faces,  and  who  had  an  insolent,  swag- 
gering air,  intolerably  vulgar  when  contrasted 
with  the  Doric  simplicity  and  quiet  gigantic  man- 
hood of  the  mountain  shepherds. 

The  new  workers  were,  however,  mainly  Low- 
land Scotchmen  from  the  mining  districts  of  Ayr- 
shire. The  dominie  had  set  himself  positively 
against  the  introduction  of  a  popish  element  and 
an  alien  people;  and  in  this  position  he  had  been 
warmly  upheld  by  Farquharson  and  the  neighbor- 
ing proprietors.  As  it  was,  there  was  an  antag- 
onism likely  to  give  him  full  employment.  The 
Gael  of  the  mountains  regarded  these  Lowland 
"working  bodies"  with  something  of  that  dis- 
dain which  a  rich  and  cultivated  man  feels  for 
kin,  not  only  poor,  but  of  contemptible  nature 
and  associations.  The  Gael  was  poor  truly,  but 
he  held  himself  as  of  gentle  birth.  He  had  lived 
by  his  sword,  or  by  the  care  of  cattle,  hunting, 
and  fishing.  Spades,  hammers,  and  looms  be- 
longed to  people  of  another  kind. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  33 

Besides  this  great  social  gulf,  there  were  polit- 
ical and  religious  ones  still  wider.  That  these 
differences  were  traditional,  rather  than  real,  made 
no  distinction.  Men  have  always  fought  as  pas- 
sionately for  an  idea  as  for  a  fact.  But  Dominie 
Tallisker  was  a  man  made  for  great  requirements 
and  great  trusts.  He  took  in  the  position  with 
the  eye  of  a  general.  He  watched  the  two  classes 
passing  down  the  same  streets  as  far  apart  as  if 
separated  by  a  continent,  and  he  said,  with  a  very 
positive  look  on  his  face,  "These  men  are  breth- 
ren, and  they  ought  to  dwell  in  unity;  and,  God 
helping  Dugald  Tallisker,  they  will  do  it,  yes,  in- 
deed, they  will." 


34  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  a  year  after  the  departure  of  the  clan,  the 
clachans  of  Crawford  and  Traquare  had  lost  al- 
most all  traces  of  their  old  pastoral  character. 
The  coal  pit  had  been  opened,  and  great  iron  fur- 
naces built  almost  at  its  mouth.  Things  had 
gone  well  with  Crawford;  the  seam  had  proved  to 
be  unusually  rich ;  and,  though  the  iron  had  been 
found,  not  on  his  land,  but  on  the  extreme  edge 
of  Blair,  he  was  quite  satisfied.  Farquharson  had 
struck  hands  with  him  over  it,  and  the  Blair  iron 
ore  went  to  the  Crawford  furnaces  to  be  smelted 
into  pig  iron. 

Crawford  had  grown  younger  in  the  ardent 
life  he  had  been  leading.  No  one  would  have  ta- 
ken him  to  be  fifty-five  years  old.  He  hardly 
thought  of  the  past;  he  only  told  himself  that  he 
had  never  been  as  strong  and  clear-headed  and 
full  of  endurance,  and  that  it  was  probable  he  had 
yet  nearly  half  a  century  before  him.  What  could 
he  not  accomplish  in  that  time  ? 

But  in  every  earthly  success  there  is  a  Morde- 
cai  sitting  in  its  gate,  and  Colin  was  the  uncom- 
fortable feature  in  the  laird's  splendid  hopes.  He 
had  lounged  heartlessly  to  and  from  the  works; 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  35 

the  steady,  mechanical  routine  of  the  new  life  op- 
pressed him,  and  he  had  a  thorough  dislike  for 
the  new  order  of  men  with  whom  he  had  to  come 
in  contact.  The  young  Crawfords  had  followed 
him  about  the  hills  with  an  almost  canine  affec- 
tion and  admiration.  To  them  he  was  always 
"the  young  laird."  These  sturdy  Ayrshire  and 
Galloway  men  had  an  old  covenanting  rebel- 
liousness about  them.  They  disputed  even  with 
Dominie  Tallisker  on  church  government;  they 
sang  Robert  Burns'  most  democratic  songs  in 
Crawford's  very  presence. 

Then  Colin  contrasted  them  physically  with 
the  great  fellows  he  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
striding  over  the  hills,  and  he  despised  the  forms 
stunted  by  working  in  low  seams  and  unhealthy 
vapors  and  the  faces  white  for  lack  of  sunshine 
and  grimy  with  the  all-pervading  coal  dust.  The 
giants  who  toiled  in  leather  masks  and  leather 
suits  before  the  furnaces  suited  his  taste  better. 
When  he  watched  them  moving  about  amid  the 
din  and  flames  and  white-hot  metal,  he  thought 
of  Vulcan  and  Mount  JEtna,  and  thus  threw  over 
them  the  enchantments  of  the  old  Roman  age. 
But  in  their  real  life  the  men  disappointed  him. 
They  were  vulgar  and  quarrelsome ;  the  poorest 
Highland  gillie  had  a  vein  of  poetry  in  his  na- 
ture, but  these  iron-workers  were  painfully  matter 


36  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

of  fact;  they  could  not  even  understand  a  courtesy 
unless  it  took  the  shape  of  a  glass  of  whiskey. 

It  was  evident  to  the  laird  that  the  new  life 
was  very  distasteful  to  his  heir;  it  was  evident  to 
the  dominie  that  it  was  developing  the  worst  sides 
of  Colin' s  character.  Something  of  this  he  point- 
ed out  to  Helen  one  morning.  Helen  and  he  had 
lately  become  great  friends,  indeed,  they  were  co- 
workers  together  in  all  the  new  labors  which  the 
dominie's  conscience  had  set  him.  The  laird  had 
been  too  busy  and  anxious  about  other  matters  to 
interfere  as  yet  with  this  alliance,  but  he  promised 
himself  he  would  do  so  very  soon.  Helen  Craw- 
ford was  not  going  to  nurse  sick  babies  and  sew 
for  all  the  old  women  in  the  clachan  much  longer. 
And  the  night-school!  This  was  particularly  of- 
fensive to  him.  Some  of  the  new  men  had  gone 
there,  and  Crawford  was  sure  he  was  in  some  way 
defrauded  by  it.  He  thought  it  impossible  to 
work  in  the  day  and  study  an  hour  at  night.  In 
some  way  he  suffered  by  it. 

' '  If  they  werna  in  the  schoolroom  they  would 
be  in  the  Change  House,"  Tallisker  had  argued. 

But  the  laird  thought  in  his  heart  that  the 
whiskey  would  be  more  to  his  advantage  than 
the  books.  Yet  he  did  not  like  to  say  so ;  there 
was  something  in  the  dominie's  face  which  re- 
strained him.  He  had  opened  the  subject  in  that 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  37 

blustering  way  which  always  hides  the  white 
feather  somewhere  beneath  it,  and  Tallisker  had 
answered  with  a  solemn  severity, 

"Crawford,  it  seems  to  be  your  wark  to  mak 
money;  it  is  mine  to  save  souls.  Our  roads  are 
sae  far  apart  we  arena  likely  to  run  against  each 
other,  if  we  dinna  try  to. ' ' 

' '  But  I  do  n'  t  like  the  way  you  are  doing  your 
wark;  that  is  all,  dominie." 

"  Mammon  never  did  like  God's  ways.  There 
is  a  vera  old  disagreement  between  them.  A  man 
has  a  right  to  consider  his  ain  welfare,  Crawford, 
but  it  shouldna  be  mair  than  the  twa  tables  o'  the 
law  to  him." 

Now  Tallisker  was  one  of  those  ministers  who 
bear  their  great  commission  in  their  faces.  There 
was  something  almost  imperial  about  the  man 
when  he  took  his  stand  by  the  humblest  altar  of 
his  duty.  Crawford  had  intended  at  this  very 
time  to  speak  positively  on  the  subject  of  his  own 
workers  to  Tallisker.  But  when  he  looked  at  the 
dark  face,  set  and  solemn  and  full  of  an  irresisti- 
ble authority,  he  was  compelled  to  keep  silence. 
A  dim  fear  that  Tallisker  would  say  something  to 
him  which  would  make  him  uncomfortable  crept 
into  his  heart.  It  was  better  that  both  the  domi- 
nie and  conscience  should  be  quiet  at  present. 

Still  he  could  not  refrain  from  saying, 


38  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

u  You  hae  set  yoursel'  a  task  you  '11  ne'er  win 
over,  dominie.  You  could  as  easy  mak  Ben-Cru- 
chan  cross  the  valley  and  sit  down  by  Ben-Appin 
as  mak  Gael  and  L,owlander  call  each  other  broth- 
ers." 

' '  We  are  told,  Crawford,  that  mountains  may 
be  moved  by  faith ;  why  not,  then,  by  love  ?  I 
am  a  servant  o'  God.  I  dinna  think  it  any  pre- 
sumption to  expect  impossibilities." 

Still  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  Tallisker 
looked  on  the  situation  as  a  difficult  one.  The 
new  workers  to  a  man  disapproved  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church  of  Scotland.  Perhaps  of  all  classes 
of  laborers  Scotch  colliers  are  the  most  theoret- 
ically democratic  and  the  most  practically  indif- 
ferent in  matters  of  religion.  Every  one  of  them 
had  relief  and  secession  arguments  ready  for  use, 
and  they  used  them  chiefly  as  an  excuse  for  not 
attending  Tallisker's  ministry.  When  conscience 
is  used  as  an  excuse,  or  as  a  weapon  for  wound- 
ing, it  is  amazing  how  tender  it  becomes.  It 
pleased  these  Lowland  workers  to  assert  a  reli- 
gious freedom  beyond  that  of  the  dorninie  and  the 
shepherd  Gael  around  them.  And  if  men  wish  to 
quarrel,  and  can  give  their  quarrel  a  religious  ba- 
sis, they  secure  a  tolerance  and  a  respect  which 
their  own  characters  would  not  give  them.  Tal- 
lisker might  pooh-pooh  sectional  or  political  dif- 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  39 

ferences,  but  he  was  himself  far  too  scrupulous  to 
regard  with  indifference  the  smallest  theological 
hesitation. 

One  day  as  he  was  walking  up  the  clachari 
pondering  these  things,  he  noticed  before  him  d 
Highland  shepherd  driving  a  flock  to  the  hills. 
There  was  a  party  of  colliers  sitting  around  the 
Change  House ;  they  were  the  night-gang,  and 
having  had  their  sleep  and  their  breakfast,  were 
now  smoking  and  drinking  away  the  few  hours 
left  of  their  rest.  Anything  offering  the  chance 
of  amusement  was  acceptable,  and  Jim  Arm- 
strong, a  saucy,  bullying  fellow  from  the  I/ons- 
dale  mines,  who  had  great  confidence  in  his  Cum- 
berland wrestling  tricks,  thought  he  saw  in  the 
placid  indifference  of  the  shepherd  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  bravado. 

"Sawnie,  ye  needna  pass  the  Change  House 
because  we  are  here.  We  '11  no  hurt  you,  man." 

The  shepherd  was  as  one  who  heard  not. 

Then  followed  an  epithet  that  no  Highlander 
can  hear  unmoved,  and  the  man  paused  and  put 
his  hand  under  his  plaid.  Tallisker  saw  the 
movement  and  quickened  his  steps.  The  word 
was  repeated,  with  the  scornful  laugh  of  the 
group  to  enforce  it.  The  shepherd  called  his  dog — 

"Keeper,  you  tak  the  sheep  to  the  Cruchan 
corrie,  and  dinna  let  ane  o'  them  stray. ' ' 


40  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

The  dumb  creature  looked  in  his  face  assent- 
ingly,  and  with  a  sharp  bark  took  the  flock  in 
charge.  Then  the  shepherd  walked  up  to  the 
group,  and  Jim  Armstrong  rose  to  meet  him. 

"Nae  dirks,"  said  an  old  man  quietly;  "tak 
your  hands  like  men. ' ' 

Before  the  speech  was  over  they  were  clinched 
in  a  grasp  which  meant  gigantic  strength  on  one 
side,  and  a  good  deal  of  practical  bruising  science 
on  the  other.  But  before  there  was  an  opportu- 
nity of  testing  the  quality  of  either  the  dominie 
was  between  the  men.  He  threw  them  apart  like 
children,  and  held  each  of  them  at  arm's  length, 
almost  as  a  father  might  separate  two  fighting 
schoolboys.  The  group  watching  could  not  re- 
frain a  shout  of  enthusiasm,  and  old  Tony  Mus- 
grave  jumped  to  his  feet  and  threw  his  pipe  and 
his  cap  in  the  air. 

"Dugald,"  said  the  dominie  to  the  shepherd, 
"go  your  ways  to  your  sheep.  I  '11  hae  nae  fight- 
ing in  my  parish. 

"Jim  Armstrong,  you  thrawart  bully  you, 
dinna  think  you  are  the  only  man  that  kens  Cum- 
berland cantrips.  I  could  fling  you  mysel'  before 
you  could  tell  your  own  name;"  and  as  if  to  prove 
his  words,  he  raised  an  immense  stone,  that  few 
men  could  have  lifted,  and  with  apparent  ease 
flung  it  over  his  right  shoulder.  A  shout  of  as- 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  41 

tonishment  greeted  the  exploit,  and  Tony  Mus- 
grave — whose  keen,  satirical  ill-will  had  hitherto 
been  Tallisker's  greatest  annoyance — came  frank- 
ly forward  and  said,  ' '  Dominie,  you  are  a  guid 
fellow  !  Will  you  tak  some  beer  wi'  me  ?' ' 

Tallisker  did  not  hesitate  a  moment. 

' '  Thank  you,  Tony.  If  it  be  a  drink  o'  good- 
will, I'll  tak  it  gladly." 

But  he  was  not  inclined  to  prolong  the  scene; 
the  interference  had  been  forced  upon  him.  It 
had  been  the  only  way  to  stop  a  quarrel  which 
there  would  have  been  no  healing  if  blood  had 
once  been  shed.  Yet  he  was  keenly  alive  to  the 
dignity  of  his  office,  and  resumed  it  in  the  next 
moment.  Indeed,  the  drinking  of  the  glass  of 
good- will  together  was  rather  a  ceremonial  than 
a  convivial  affair.  Perhaps  that  also  was  the  best. 
The  men  were  silent  and  respectful,  and  for  the 
first  time  lifted  their  caps  with  a  hearty  courtesy 
to  Tallisker  when  he  left  them. 

aWeel  !  Wonders  never  cease!"  said  Jim 
Armstrong  scornfully.  "To  see  Tony  Musgrave 
hobnobbing  wi'  a  black-coat !  The  deil  must  'a' 
had  a  spasm  o'  laughing. ' ' 

"  Let  the  deil  laugh,"  said  Tony,  with  a  snap 
of  his  grimy  fingers.  Then,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  he  added,  ' '  Lads,  I  heard  this  morning 
that  the  dominie's  wheat  was  spoiling,  because 


43  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

he  couldna  get  help  to  cut  it.  I  laughed  when  I 
heard  it;  I  didna  ken  the  man  then.  I'm  going 
to-morrow  to  cut  the  dominie's  wheat;  which  o' 
you  will  go  wi'  me  ?' ' 

"  I !"  and  "  I !"  and  "  I  !"  was  the  hearty  re- 
sponse; and  so  next  day  Traquare  saw  a  strange 
sight — a  dozen  colliers  in  a  field  of  wheat,  making 
a  real  holiday  of  cutting  the  grain  and  binding  the 
sheaves,  so  that  before  the  next  Sabbath  it  had  all 
been  brought  safely  home. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  43 


CHAPTER  V. 

BUT  during  these  very  days,  when  the  domi- 
nie and  his  parishioners  were  drawing  a  step 
closer  to  each  other,  the  laird  and  his  son  were 
drifting  farther  apart.  Crawford  felt  keenly  that 
Colin  took  no  interest  in  the  great  enterprises 
which  filled  his  own  life.  The  fact  was,  Colin 
inherited  his  mother's,  and  not  his  father's  tem- 
perament. The  late  L/ady  Crawford  had  been  the 
daughter  of  a  Zetland  Udaller,  a  pure  Scandina- 
vian, a  descendant  of  the  old  Vikings,  and  she 
inherited  from  them  a  poetic  imagination  and  a 
nature  dreamy  and  inert,  though  capable  of  rou- 
sing itself  into  fits  of  courage  that  could  dare  the 
impossible.  Colin  would  have  led  a  forlorn  hope 
or  stormed  a  battery;  but  the  bare  ugliness  and 
monotony  of  his  life  at  the  works  fretted  and  wor- 
ried him. 

Tallisker  had  repeatedly  urged  a  year's  for- 
eign travel.  But  the  laird  had  been  much  averse 
to  the  plan.  France,  in  his  opinion,  was  a  hot- 
bed of  infidelity;  Italy,  of  popery;  Germany,  of 
socialistic  and  revolutionary  doctrines.  There 
was  safety  only  in  Scotland.  Pondering  these 
things,  he  resolved  that  marriage  was  the  proper 


44  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

means  to  "settle"  the  lad.  So  he  entered  into 
communication  with  an  old  friend  respecting  his 
daughter  and  his  daughter's  portion;  and  one 
night  he  laid  the  result  before  Colin. 

Colin  was  indignant.  He  wanted  to  marry  no 
woman,  and  least  of  all  women,  Isabel  McLeod. 

"  She  '11  hae  ,£50,000 !"  said  the  laird  senten- 
tiously. 

"I  would  not  sell  myself  for  ^50,000." 

"You'd  be  a  vera  dear  bargain  at  half  the 
price  to  any  woman,  Colin.  And  you  never  saw 
Isabel.  She  was  here  when  you  were  in  Glas- 
gow. She  has  the  bonniest  black  e'en  in  Scot- 
land, and  hay-  like  a  raven's  wing." 

"When  I  marry,  sir,  I  shall  marry  a  woman 
like  my  mother:  a  woman  with  eyes  as  blue  as 
heaven,  and  a  face  like  a  rose.  I'll  go,  as  you 
did,  to  Shetland  for  her." 

( '  There  isna  a  house  there  fit  for  you  to  take 
a  wife  from,  Colin,  save  and  except  the  Karl's 
ain;  and  his  daughter,  the  L,ady  Selina,  is  near 
thirty  years  old." 

"There  are  my  second  cousins,  Helga  and 
Saxa  Vedder. ' ' 

Then  the  laird  was  sure  in  his  own  heart  that 
Tallisker's  advice  was  best.  France  and  Italy 
were  less  to  be  feared  than  pretty,  portionless 
cousins.  Colin  had  better  travel  a  year,  and  he 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  45 

proposed  it.  It  hurt  him  to  see  how  eagerly  his 
heir  accepted  the  offer.  However,  if  the  thing 
was  to  done,  it  was  best  done  quickly.  Letters 
of  credit  suitable  to  the  young  laird's  fortune 
were  prepared,  and  in  less  than  a  month  he  was 
ready  to  begin  his  travels.  It  had  been  agreed 
that  he  should  remain  away  one  year,  and  if  it 
seemed  desirable,  that  his  stay  might  even  be 
lengthened  to  two. .  But  no  one  dreamed  that 
advantage  would  be  taken  of  this  permission. 

"He'll  be  hamesick  ere  a  twelvemonth, 
laird,"  said  the  dominie;  and  the  laird  answered 
fretfully,  "A  twelvemonth  is  a  big  slice  o'  life 
to  fling  awa  in  far  countries. ' ' 

The  night  before  Colin  left  he  was  walking 
with  his  sister  on  the  moor.  A  sublime  tranquil- 
lity was  in  the  still  September  air.  The  evening 
crimson  hung  over  the  hills  like  a  royal  mantle. 
The  old  church  stood  framed  in  the  deepest  blue. 
At  that  distance  the  long  waves  broke  without  a 
sound,  and  the  few  sails  on  the  horizon  looked 
like  white  flowers  at  sea. 

' '  How  beautiful  is  this  mansion  of  our  father !' ' 
said  Helen  softly.  "One  blushes  to  be  caught 
worrying  in  it,  and  yet,  Colin,  I  fear  to  have  you 
go  away." 

"Why,  my  dear?" 

"I  have  a  presentiment  that  we  shall  meet  no 


46  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

more  in  this  life.  Nay,  do  not  smile;  this  strange 
intelligence  of  sorrow,  this  sudden  trembling  in  a 
soul  at  rest,  is  not  all  a  delusion.  We  shall  part 
to-morrow,  Colin.  Oh,  darling  brother,  where 
shall  we  meet  again?" 

He  looked  into  the  fair,  tender  face  and  the 
eager,  questioning  eyes,  and  found  himself  unable 
to  reply. 

' '  Remember,  Colin  !  I  give  you  a  rendezvous 
in  heaven." 

He  clasped  her  hand  tightly,  and  they  walked 
on  in  a  silence  that  Colin  remembered  often  after- 
wards. Sometimes,  in  dreams,  to  the  very  end  of 
his  life,  he  took  again  with  Helen  that  last  even- 
ing walk,  and  his  soul  leaned  and  hearkened  after 
hers.  u  I  give  you  a  rendezvous  in  heaven  !" 

In  the  morning  they  had  a  few  more  words 
alone.  She  was  standing  looking  out  thought- 
fully into  the  garden.  "Are  you  going  to  Lon- 
don ?' '  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Yes." 

"You  will  call  on  Mr.  Selwyn?" 

"I  think  so." 

'*  Tell  him  we  remember  him — and  try  to 
follow,  though  afar  off,  the  example  he  sets  us." 

"Well,  you  know,  Helen,  I  may  not  see  him. 
We  never  were  chums.  I  have  often  wondered 
why  I  asked  him  here.  It  was  all  done  in  a  mo- 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  47 

ment.  I  had  thought  of  asking  Walter  Napier, 
and  then  I  asked  Selwyn.  I  have  often  thought 
it  would  have  pleased  me  better  if  I  had  invited 
Walter." 

' '  Sometimes  it  is  permitted  to  us  to  do  things 
for  the  pleasure  of  others,  rather  than  our  own. 
I  have  often  thought  that  God — who  foresaw  the 
changes  to  take  place  here — sent  Mr.  Selwyn 
with  a  message  to  Dominie  Tallisker.  The 
dominie  thinks  so  too.  Then  how  glad  you  ought 
to  be  that  you  asked  him.  He  came  to  prepare 
for  those  poor  people  who  as  yet  were  scattered 
over  Ayrshire  and  Cumberland.  And  this  thought 
comforts  me  for  you,  Colin.  God  knows  just 
where  you  are  going,  dear,  and  the  people  you 
are  going  to  meet,  and  all  the  events  that  will 
happen  to  you." 

The  events  and  situations  of  life  resemble 
ocean  waves — every  one  is  alike  and  yet  every 
one  is  different.  It  was  just  so  at  Crawford  Keep 
after  Colin  left  it.  The  usual  duties  of  the  day 
were  almost  as  regular  as  the  clock,  but  little 
things  varied  them.  There  were  letters  or  no  let- 
ters from  Colin ;  there  were  little  events  at  the 
works  or  in  the  village;  the  dominie  called  or  he 
did  not  call.  Occasionally  there  were  visitors 
connected  with  the  mines  or  furnaces,  and  some- 
times there  were  social  evening  gatherings  of  the 


48  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

neighboring  young  people,  or  formal  state  dinners 
for  the  magistrates  and  proprietors  who  were  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  the  laird. 

For  the  first  year  of  Colin' s  absence,  if  his  let- 
ters were  not  quite  satisfactory,  they  were  con- 
doned. It  did  not  please  his  father  that  Colin 
seemed  to  have  settled  himself  so  completely  in 
Rome,  among  "artists  and  that  kind  o'  folk," 
and  he  was  still  more  angry  when  Colin  declared 
his  intention  of  staying  away  another  year.  Poor 
father  !  How  he  had  toiled  and  planned  to  ag- 
grandize this  only  son,  who  seemed  far  more  de- 
lighted with  an  old  coin  or  an  old  picture  than 
with  the  great  works  which  bore  his  name.  In 
all  manner  of  ways  he  had  made  it  clear  to  his 
family  that  in  the  dreamy,  sensuous  atmosphere 
of  Italian  life  he  remembered  the  gray  earnestness 
of  Scottish  life  with  a  kind  of  terror. 

Tallisker  said,  "Give  him  his  way  a  little 
longer,  laird.  To  bring  him  hame  now  is  no  use. 
People  canna  thole  blue  skies  for  ever;  he'll  be 
wanting  the  moors  and  the  misty  corries  and  the 
gray  clouds  erelong."  So  Colin  had  another  year 
granted  him,  and  his  father  added  thousand  to 
thousand,  and  said  to  his  heart  wearily  many  and 
many  a  time,  "  It  is  all  vexation  of  spirit." 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year  Crawford  wrote 
a  most  important  letter  to  his  son.  There  was  an 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  49 

opening  for  the  family  that  might  never  come 
again.  All  arrangements  had  been  made  for  Colin 
to  enter  the  coming  contest  for  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment. The  Marquis  of  B had  been  spoken  to, 

and  Crawford  and  he  had  come  to  an  understand- 
ing. Crawford  did  not  give  the  particulars  of  the 
"understanding,"  but  he  told  Colin  that  his  "po- 
litical career  was  assured."  He  himself  would 
take  care  of  the  works.  Political  life  was  open  to 
his  son,  and  if  money  and  influence  could  put  him 
in  the  House  of  Peers,  money  should  not  be  spared. 

The  offer  was  so  stupendous,  the  future  it 
looked  forward  to  so  great,  Crawford  never  doubt- 
ed Colin' s  proud  acquiescence.  That  much 
he  owed  to  a  long  line  of  glorious  ancestors ;  it 
was  one  of  the  obligations  of  noble  birth  ;  he 
would  not  dare  to  neglect  it. 

Impatiently  he  waited  Colin' s  answer.  In- 
deed, he  felt  sure  Colin  would  answer  such  a  call 
in  person.  He  was  disappointed  when  a  letter 
came;  he  had  not  known,  till  then,  how  sure  he 
had  felt  of  seeing  his  son.  And  the  letter  was  a 
simple  blow  to  him.  Very  respectfully,  but  very 
firmly,  the  proposition  was  declined.  Colin  said 
he  knew  little  of  parties  and  cabals,  and  was  cer- 
tain, at  least,  that  nothing  could  induce  him  to 

serve  under  the  Marquis  of  B .  He  could  not 

see  his  obligations  to  the  dead  Crawfords  as  his  fa- 

7 


50  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

ther  did.  He  considered  his  life  his  own.  It  had 
come  to  him  with  certain  tastes,  which  he  meant 
to  improve  and  gratify,  for  only  in  that  way  was 
life  of  any  value  to  him. 

The  laird  laid  the  letter  in  Tallisker's  hands 
without  a  word.  He  was  almost  broken-hearted. 
He  had  not  yet  got  to  that  point  where  money- 
making  for  money's  sake  was  enough.  Family 
aggrandizement  and  political  ambition  are  not 
the  loftiest  motives  of  a  man's  life,  but  still  they 
lift  money-making  a  little  above  the  dirty  drudg- 
ery of  mere  accumulation.  Hitherto  Crawford 
had  worked  for  an  object,  and  the  object,  at  least 
in  his  own  eyes,  had  dignified  the  labor. 

In  his  secret  heart  he  was  angry  at  Colin' s 
calm  respectability.  A  spendthrift  prodigal,  wast- 
ing his  substance  in  riotous  living,  would  have 
been  easier  to  manage  than  this  young  man  of 
aesthetic  tastes,  whose  greatest  extravagance  was 
a  statuette  or  a  picture.  Tallisker,  too,  was  more 
uneasy  than  he  would  confess.  He  had  hoped 
that  Colin  would  answer  his  father's  summons, 
because  he  believed  now  that  the  life  he  was  lead- 
ing was  unmanning  him.  The  poetical  element 
in  his  character  was  usurping  an  undue  mastery. 
He  wrote  to  Colin  very  sternly,  and  told  him 
plainly  that  a  poetic  pantheism  was  not  a  whit 
less  sinful  than  the  most  vulgar  infidelity. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  51 

Still  he  advised  the  laird  to  be  patient,  and  by 
no  means  to  answer  Colin' s  letter  in  a  hurry.  But 
time  only  fixed  more  firmly  the  angry  father's  de- 
termination. Colin  must  come  home  and  fulfil 
his  wish,  or  he  must  remain  away  until  he  re- 
turned as  master.  As  his  son,  he  would  know 
him  no  more;  as  the  heir  of  Crawford,  he  would 
receive  at  intervals  such  information  as  pertained 
to  that  position.  For  the  old  man  was  just  in  his 
anger;  it  never  seemed  possible  to  him  to  deprive 
Colin  of  the  right  of  his  heritage.  To  be  the  i3th 
Laird  of  Crawford  was  Colin' s  birthright;  he  fully 
recognised  his  title  to  the  honor,  and,  as  the  fu- 
ture head  of  the  house,  rendered  him  a  definite 
respect. 

Of  course  a  letter  written  in  such  a  spirit  did 
no  good  whatever.  Nothing  after  it  could  have 
induced  Colin  to  come  home.  He  wrote  and  de- 
clined to  receive  even  the  allowance  due  to  him 
as  heir  of  Crawford.  The  letter  was  perfectly 
respectful,  but  cruelly  cold  and  polite,  and  every 
word  cut  the  old  man  like  a  sword. 

For  some  weeks  he  really  seemed  to  lose  all 
interest  in  life.  Then  the  result  Tallisker  feared 
was  arrived  at.  He  let  ambition  go,  and  settled 
down  to  the  simple  toil  of  accumulation. 


52  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

BUT  Crawford  had  not  a  miser's  nature.  His 
house,  his  name,  his  children  were  dearer,  after 
all,  to  him  than  gold.  Hope  springs  eternal  in 
the  breast;  in  a  little  while  he  had  provided  him- 
self with  a  new  motive  :  he  would  marry  Helen 
to  young  Farquharson,  and  endow  her  so  royally 
that  Farquharson  would  gladly  take  her  name. 
There  should  be  another  house  of  Crawford  of 
which  Helen  should  be  the  root. 

Helen  had  been  long  accustomed  to  consider 
Hugh  Farquharson  as  her  future  husband.  The 
young  people,  if  not  very  eager  lovers,  were  at 
least  very  warm  and  loyal  friends.  They  had 
been  in  no  hurry  to  finish  the  arrangement. 
Farquharson  was  in  the  Scot's  Greys;  it  was  un- 
derstood that  at  his  marriage  he  should  resign  his 
commission,  so,  though  he  greatly  admired  Hel- 
en, he  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  the  delights  of 
metropolitan  and  military  life. 

But  suddenly  Crawford  became  urgent  for  the 
fulfilment  of  the  contract,  and  Helen,  seeing  how 
anxious  he  was,  and  knowing  how  sorely  Colin 
had  disappointed  him,  could  no  longer  plead  for  a 
delay.  And  yet  a  strange  sadness  fell  over  her ; 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  53 

some  inexplicable  symptoms  as  to  her  health  led 
her  to  fear  she  would  never  be  Farquharson's  wife; 
the  gay  wedding  attire  that  came  from  Edinburgh 
filled  her  with  a  still  sorrow ;  she  could  not  appro- 
priate any  part  of  it  as  her  own. 

One  day  when  the  preparations  were  nearly 
finished,  Tallisker  came  up  to  the  Keep.  Helen 
saw  at  once  that  he  was  moved  by  some  intense 
feeling,  and  there  was  a  red  spot  on  his  cheeks 
which  she  had  been  accustomed  to  associate  with 
the  dominie's  anger.  The  laird  was  sitting  pla- 
cidly smoking,  and  drinking  toddy.  He  had 
been  telling  Helen  of  the  grand  house  he  was  go- 
ing to  build  on  the  new  estate  he  had  just  bought; 
and  he  was  now  calmly  considering  how  to  carry 
out  his  plans  on  the  most  magnificent  scale,  for 
he  had  firmly  determined  there  should  be  neither 
Keep  nor  Castle  in  the  North  Country  as  splendid 
as  the  new  Crawfords'  Home. 

He  greeted  Tallisker  with  a  peculiar  kindness, 
and  held  his  hand  almost  lovingly.  His  friend- 
ship for  the  dominie — if  he  had  known  it — was  a 
grain  of  salt  in  his  fast  deteriorating  life.  He  did 
not  notice  the  dominie's  stern  preoccupation,  he 
was  so  full  of  his  own  new  plans.  He  began  at 
once  to  lay  them  before  his  old  friend ;  he  had 
that  very  day  got  the  estimates  from  the  Edin- 
burgh architect. 


54  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Tallisker  looked  at  them  a  moment  with  a 
gathering  anger.  Then  he  pushed  them  passion- 
ately away,  saying  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  a 
sob,  ' '  I  darena  look  at  them,  laird ;  I  darena  look 
at  them!  Do  yon  ken  that  there  are  fourteen 
cases  o'  typhus  in  them  colliers'  cottages  you 
built  ?  Do  you  remember  what  Mr.  Selwyn  said 
about  the  right  o'  laborers  to  pure  air  and  pure 
water  ?  I  knew  he  was  right  then,  and  yet,  God 
forgive  me!  I  let  you  tak  your  ain  way.  Six  lit- 
tle bits  o'  bairns,  twa  women,  and  six  o'  your  pit 
men!  You  must  awa  to  Athol  instanter  for  doc- 
tors and  medicines  and  brandy  and  such  things  as 
are  needfu'.  There  isna  a  minute  to  lose,  laird." 

Helen  had  risen  while  he  \vas  speaking  with 
a  calm  determination  that  frightened  her  father. 
He  did  not  answer  Tallisker,  he  spoke  to  her: 
"Where  are  you  going,  Helen?" 

"Down  to  the  village;  I  can  do  something 
till  better  help  is  got. ' ' 

u  Helen  Crawford,  you  '11  bide  where  you  are  ! 
Sit  still,  and  I'll  do  whatever  Tallisker  bids 
me." 

Then  he  turned  angrily  to  the  dominie. 

"  You  are  aye  bringing  me  ill  tidings.  Am  I 
to  blame  if  death  comes?" 

"Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?  It's  an  auld 
question,  laird.  The  first  murderer  of  a'  asked  it. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  55 

I  'm  bound  to  say  you  are  to  blame.  When  you 
gie  fever  an  invite  to  your  cotters'  homes,  you 
darena  lay  the  blame  on  the  Almighty.  You 
should  hae  built  as  Mr.  Selwyn  advised." 

"Dominie,  be  quiet.  I'm  no  a  bairn,  to  be 
hectored  o'er  in  this  way.  Say  what  I  must  do 
and  I  '11  do  it — anything  in  reason — only  Helen. 
I'll  no  hae  her  leave  the  Keep;  that's  as  sure 
as  deathe.  Sit  down,  Helen.  Send  a'  the  wine 
and  dainties  you  like  to,  but  do  n't  you  stir  a  foot 
o'er  the  threshold." 

His  anger  was,  in  its  way,  as  authoritative  as 
the  dominie's.  Helen  did  as  she  was  bid,  more 
especially  as  Tallisker  in  this  seconded  the  laird. 

"There  is  naething  she  could  do  in  the  vil- 
lage that  some  old  crone  could  not  do  better. ' ' 

It  was  a  bitterly  annoying  interruption  to 
Crawford's  pleasant  dreams  and  plans.  He  got 
up  and  went  over  to  the  works.  He  found  things 
very  bad  there.  Three  more  of  the  men  had  left 
sick,  and  there  was  an  unusual  depression  in  the 
village.  The  next  day  the  tidings  were  worse. 
He  foresaw  that  he  would  have  to  work  the  men 
half  time,  and  there  had  never  been  so  many 
large  and  peremptory  orders  on  hand.  It  was  all 
very  unfortunate  to  him. 

Tallisker' s  self-reproaches  were  his  own;  he 
resented  them,  even  while  he  acknowledged  their 


56  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

truth.  He  wished  he  had  built  as  Selwyn  ad- 
vised; he  wished  Tallisker  had  urged  him  more. 
It  was  not  likely  he  would  have  listened  to  any 
urging,  but  it  soothed  him  to  think  he  would. 
And  he  greatly  aggravated  the  dominie's  trouble 
by  saying, 

"Why  did  ye  na  mak  me  do  right,  Tallisker? 
You  should  hae  been  mair  determined  wi'  me, 
dominie. ' ' 

During  the  next  six  weeks  the  dominie's  ef- 
forts were  almost  superhuman.  He  saw  every 
cottage  whitewashed;  he  was  nurse  and  doctor 
and  cook.  The  laird  saw  him  carrying  wailing 
babies  and  holding  raving  men  in  his  strong 
arms.  He  watched  over  the  sick  till  the  last  ray 
of  hope  fled;  he  buried  them  tenderly  when  all 
was  over.  The  splendor  of  the  man's  humanity 
had  never  shown  itself  until  it  stood  erect  and 
feared  not,  while  the  pestilence  that  walked  in 
darkness  and  the  destruction  that  wasted  at  noon- 
day dogged  his  every  step. 

The  laird,  too,  tried  to  do  his  duty.  Plenty 
of  people  are  willing  to  play  the  Samaritan  with- 
out the  oil  and  the  twopence,  but  that  was  not 
Crawford's  way.  Tallisker' s  outspoken  blame 
had  really  made  him  tremble  at  his  new  responsi- 
bilities ;  he  had  put  his  hand  liberally  in  his 
pocket  to  aid  the  sufferers.  Perhaps  at  the  foun- 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  57 

dation  of  all  lay  one  haunting  thought — Helen  ! 
If  he  did  what  he  could  for  others,  Helen  would 
be  safer.  He  never  audibly  admitted  that  Helen 
was  in  any  danger,  but — but — if  there  should  be 
danger,  he  was,  he  hoped,  paying  a  ransom  for  her 
safety. 

In  six  weeks  the  epidemic  appeared  to  have 
spent  itself.  There  was  a  talk  of  resuming  full 
hours  at  the  works.  Twenty  new  hands  had  been 
sent  for  to  fill  vacant  places.  Still  there  was  a 
shadow  on  the  dominie's  face,  and  he  knew  him- 
self there  was  a  shadow  on  his  heart.  Was  it  the 
still  solemnity  of  death  in  which  he  had  lately 
lived  so  much  ?  Or  was  it  the  shadow  of  a  coming 
instead  of  a  departing  sorrow'  ? 

One  afternoon  he  thought  he  would  go  and 
sit  with  Helen  a  little  while.  During  his  close 
intimacy  with  the  colliers  he  had  learned  many 
things  which  would  change  his  methods  of 
working  for  their  welfare;  and  of  these  changes 
he  wished  to  speak  with  Helen.  She  was  just 
going  for  a  walk  on  the  moor,  and  he  went  with 
her.  It  was  on  such  a  September  evening  she 
had  walked  last  with  Colin.  As  they  sauntered 
slowly,  almost  solemnly  home,  she  remembered 
it.  Some  impulse  far  beyond  her  control  or  un- 
derstanding urged  her  to  say,  ' '  Dominie,  when  I 

am  gone  I  leave  Colin  to  you." 

8 


58  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  enlighten- 
ment. Her  face  had  for  a  moment  a  far-away, 
death-like  predestination  over  it.  His  heart  sank 
like  lead  as  he  looked  at  her. 

u  Are  you  ill,  Helen?" 

"I  have  not  been  well  for  two  weeks." 

He  felt  her  hands;  they  were  burning  with 
fever. 

"Let  us  go  home,"  she  said,  and  then  she 
turned  and  gave  one  long,  mournful  look  at  the 
mountains  and  the  sea  and  the  great  stretch  of 
moorland.  Tallisker  knew  in  his  heart  she  was 
bidding  farewell  to  them.  He  had  no  word  to 
say.  There  are  moods  of  the  soul  beyond  all 
human  intermeddling. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  Helen.  She 
pointed  to  the  mountains.  "  How  steadfast  they 
are,  how  familiar  with  forgotten  years !  How 
small  we  are  beside  them  !" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Tallisker  stoutly. 
u  Mountains  are  naething  to  men.  How  small  is 
Sinai  when  the  man  Moses  stands  upon  it !" 

Then  they  were  at  the  Keep  garden.  Helen 
pulled  a  handful  of  white  and  golden  asters,  and 
the  laird,  who  had  seen  them  coining,  opened  the 
door  wide  to  welcome  them.  Alas !  Alas ! 
Though  he  saw  it  not,  death  entered  with  them. 
At  midnight  there  was  the  old,  old  cry  of  despair 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  59 

and  anguish,  the  hurrying  for  help,  where  no 
help  was  of  avail,  the  desolation  of  a  terror  creep- 
ing hour  by  hour  closer  to  the  hearthstone. 

The  laird  was  stricken  with  a  stony  grief 
which  was  deaf  to  all  consolation.  He  wandered 
up  and  down  wringing  his  hands,  and  crying  out 
at  intervals  like  a  man  in  mortal  agony.  Helen 
lay  in  a  stupor  while  the  fever  burned  her  young 
life  away.  She  muttered  constantly  the  word 
"Colin;"  and  Tallisker,  though  he  had  no  hope 
that  Colin  would  ever  reach  his  sister,  wrote  for 
the  young  laird. 

Just  before  the  last  she  became  clearly,  al- 
most radiantly  conscious.  She  would  be  alone 
with  her  father,  and  the  old  man,  struggling 
bravely  with  his  grief,  knelt  down  beside  her. 
She  whispered  to  him  that  there  was  a  paper  in 
the  jewel-box  on  her  table.  He  went  and  got  it. 
It  was  a  tiny  scrap  folded  crosswise.  ' '  Read  it, 
father,  when  I  am  beyond  all  pain  and  grief.  I 
shall  trust  you,  dear."  He  could  only  bow  his 
head  upon  her  hands  and  weep. 

"  Tallisker !"  she  whispered,  and  he  rose  soft- 
ly and  called  him.  The  two  men  stood  together 
by  her  side. 

"  Is  it  well,  my  daughter  ?"  said  the  dominie, 
with  a  tone  of  tender  triumph  in  his  voice.  ' '  You 
fear  not,  Helen,  the  bonds  of  death  ?' ' 


60  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

"I  trust  in  those  pierced  hands  which  have 
broken  the  bonds  of  death.  Oh  !  the  unspeaka- 
ble riches!" 

These  were  her  last  words.  Tallisker  prayed 
softly  as  the  mystical  gray  shadow  stole  over  the 
fair,  tranquil  face.  It  was  soon  all  over. 

"  She  had  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  misname  delight." 

The  bridal  robes  were  folded  away,  the  bride- 
groom went  back  to  his  regiment,  the  heartsore 
father  tried  to  take  up  his  life  again.  But  it 
seemed  to  him  to  have  been  broken  in  two  by  the 
blow;  and  besides  this,  there  was  a  little  strip  of 
paper  which  lay  like  a  load  upon  his  heart.  It 
was  the  paper  he  had  taken  from  Helen's  dying 
fingers,  and  it  contained  her  last  request: 

"Father,  dear,  dear  father,  whatever  you  in- 
tended to  give  me — I  pray  you — give  it  to  God's 

poor. 

"HELEN." 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  61 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  dominie  had  felt  certain  that  Colin  would 
answer  his  letter  in  person,  but  after  a  long  si- 
lence he  received  it  back  again.  Colin  had  left 
Rome,  and  left  no  trace  behind  him.  The  laird 
knew  that  Tallisker  had  written,  and  he  too  had 
been  hoping  and  expecting.  But  he  received  the 
news  of  his  son's  disappearance  without  remark. 
L,ife  for  some  time  was  a  dreary  weight  to  him,  he 
scarce  felt  as  if  he  could  lift  it  again.  Hope  after 
hope  had  failed  him.  He  had  longed  so  to  be  a 
rich  man,  had  God  in  his  anger  granted  him  his 
wish?  And  was  no  other  thing  to  prosper  with 
him?  All  the  same  he  clung  to  his  gold  with  a 
deeper  affection.  When  all  other  vices  are  old 
avarice  is  still  young.  As  ambition  and  other 
motives  died  out,  avarice  usurped  their  places, 
and  Tallisker  saw  with  a  feeling  half  angry,  and 
half  pitiful,  the  laird's  life  dwindling  down  to 
this  most  contemptible  of  all  aims.  He  kept  his 
duty  as  proprietor  constantly  before  the  laird,  but 
he  no  longer  seemed  to  care  that  people  should 
say,  "Crawford's  men  have  the  best  laborers' 
cottages  in  Scotland." 


62  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"I  hae  made  up  my  mind,  Tallisker,"  he 
said  fretfully,  ' '  the  vvarld  thinks  more  o'  the  men 
who  niak  money  than  o'  those  who  gie  it  awa. ' ' 
Certainly  this  change  was  not  a  sudden  one;  for 
two  years  after  Helen's  death  it  was  coming  slow- 
ly forward,  yet  there  were  often  times  when  Tal- 
lisker hoped  that  it  was  but  a  temptation,  and 
would  be  finally  conquered.  Men  do  not  lose  the 
noble  savor  of  humanity  in  a  moment.  Even  on 
the  downward  road  good  angels  wait  anxiously, 
and  whisper  in  every  better  moment  to  the  lap- 
sing soul,  "  Return !" 

But  there  was  a  seed  of  bitterness  in  Craw- 
ford's heart,  that  was  poisoning  the  man's  spir- 
itual life — a  little  bit  of  paper,  yet  it  lay  like  a 
great  stone  over  his  noblest  feelings,  and  sealed 
them  up  as  in  a  sepulchre.  Oh,  if  some  angel 
would  come  and  roll  it  away  !  He  had  never 
told  the  dominie  of  Helen's  bequest.  He  did  not 
dare  to  destroy  the  slip  of  paper,  but  he  hid  it  in 
the  most  secret  drawer  of  his  secretary.  He  told 
himself  that  it  was  only  a  dying  sentiment  in 
Helen  to  wish  it,  and  that  it  would  be  a  foolish 
superstition  in  him  to  regard  it.  Perhaps  in  those 
last  moments  she  had  not  understood  what  she 
was  asking. 

For  a  little  while  he  found  relief  in  this  sug- 
gestion; then  he  remembered  that  the  request 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  63 

must  have  been  dictated  before  the  fever  had  con- 
quered her  strength  or  judgment.  The  words 
were  clearly  written  in  Helen's  neat,  precise 
manner;  there  was  not  a  hesitating  line  in  the 
whole.  She  had  evidently  written  it  with  care 
and  consideration.  No  one  could  tell  how  that 
slip  of  paper  haunted  him.  Even  in  the  darkness 
of  its  secret  hiding-place  his  spiritual  eyes  saw 
it  clearly  day  and  night. 

To  give  to  the  poor  all  he  had  intended  to 
give  to  Helen  !  He  could  not !  He  could  not ! 
He  could  not  do  it !  Helen  could  not  have  known 
what  she  was  asking.  He  had  meant,  in  one  way 
or  another,  to  give  her,  as  the  founder  of  the  new 
line  of  Crawfords,  at  least  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  Was  it  reasonable  to  scatter  hither  and 
yon  such  a  large  sum,  earned,  as  he  told  himself 
pitifully,  "  by  his  ain  wisdom  and  enterprise  !" 

The  dominie  knew  nothing  of  this  terrible 
struggle  going  on  ever  in  the  man's  soul  who  sat 
by  his  side.  He  saw  that  Crawford  was  irritable 
and  moody,  but  he  laid  the  blame  of  it  on  Colin. 
Oh,  if  the  lad  would  only  write,  he  would  go  him- 
self and  bring  him  back  to  his  father,  though  he 
should  have  to  seek  him  at  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
But  four  years  passed  away,  and  the  prodigal  sent 
no  backward,  homeward  sign.  Every  night,  then, 
the  laird  looked  a  moment  into  the  dominie's 


64  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

face,  and  always  the  dominie  shook  his  head. 
Ah,  life  has  silences  that  are  far  more  pathetic 
than  death's. 

One  night  Crawford  said,  almost  in  a  whisper, 

"He'll  be  dead,  Tallisker." 

And  Tallisker  answered  promptly, 

"He'll  come  hame,  laird." 

No  other  words  about  Colin  passed  between 
the  two  men  in  four  years.  But  destiny  loves 
surprises.  One  night  Tallisker  laid  a  letter  on 
the  table. 

"  It  is  for  you,  laird ;  read  it. ' ' 

It  was  a  singular  letter  to  come  after  so  long  a 
silence,  and  the  laird's  anger  was  almost  excu- 
sable. 

"Listen,  Tallisker;  did  e'er  you  hear  the 
like? 

"  'DEAR  FATHER:  I  want,  for  a  very  lauda- 
ble purpose,  ^4,000.  It  is  not  for  myself  in  any 
way.  If  you  will  let  me  have  it,  I  will  trouble 
you  with  the  proper  explanations.  If  not,  they 
will  not  be  necessary.  I  have  heard  that  you  are 
well.  I  pray  God  to  continue  his  mercy  to  you. 
"  'Your  dutiful  son, 

" '  COLIN  CRAWFORD.' 

"'Laudable  purpose!'"  cried  the  unhappy 
father,  in  a  passion.  "The  lad  is  altogether  too 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  65 

laudable.  The  letter  is  an  insult,  Tallisker.  I'll 
ne'er  forgive  him  for  it.  Oh,  what  a  miserable 
father  I  am  !" 

Aud  the  dominie  was  moved  to  tears  at  the 
sight  of  his  old  friend's  bitter  anguish. 

Still  he  asserted  that  Colin  had  meant  it  to  be 
a  kind  letter. 

' '  Dinna  tak  want  o'  sense  for  want  o'  affec- 
tion, laird.  The  lad  is  a  conceited  prig.  He's 
set  up  wi'  himsel'  about  something  he  is  going  to 
do.  Let  him  hae  the  money.  I  would  show  him 
you  can  gie  as  grandly  as  he  can  ask  loftily." 

And,  somehow,  the  idea  pleased  the  laird.  It 
was  something  that  Colin  had  been  obliged  to  ask 
him  for  money  at  all.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  out 
a  check  for  the  amount.  Then  he  enclosed  it  with 
these  words: 

"SON  COLIN  CRAWFORD:  I  send  you  what 
you  desire.  I  am  glad  your  prospects  are  sae 
laudable;  maybe  it  may  enter  your  heart,  some 
day,  to  consider  it  laudable  to  keep  the  Fifth 
Command.  Your  sister  is  dead.  Life  is  lonely, 
but  I  thole  it.  I  want  nae  explanations. 
"  Your  father, 

"ALEX.  CRAWFORD." 

"  What's  the  address,  Tallisker?" 
"Regent's  Place,  London." 


66  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

The  answer  arrived  in  due  time.  It  was  as 
proper  as  a  letter  could  be.  Colin  said  he  was 
just  leaving  for  America,  but  did  not  expect  to  be 
more  than  six  months  there.  But  he  never  said 
a  word  about  coming  to  Crawford.  Tallisker  was 
downright  angry  at  the  young  man.  It  was  true 
his  father  had  told  him  he  did  not  wish  to  see  him 
again,  but  that  had  been  said  under  a  keen  sense 
of  family  wrong  and  of  bitter  disappointment. 
Colin  ought  to  have  taken  his  father's  ready  re- 
sponse to  his  request  as  an  overture  of  reconcilia- 
tion. For  a  moment  he  was  provoked  with  both 
of  them. 

"  You  are  a  dour  lot,  you  Crawfords;  ane  o' 
you  is  prouder  than  the  ither. ' ' 

"The  Crawfords  are  as  God  made  them,  do- 
minie." 

"  And  some  o'  them  a  little  warse." 

Yet,  after  all,  it  was  Colin  Tallisker  was  really 
angry  at  For  the  present  he  had  to  let  his  anger 
lie  by.  Colin  had  gone,  and  given  him  no  address 
in  America. 

"He  is  feared  I  will  be  telling  him  his  duty, 
and  when  he  comes  back  that  is  what  I  shall  do, 
if  I  go  to  London  to  mak  him  hear  me." 

For  a  moment  the  laird  looked  hopefully  into 
the  dominie's  face,  but  the  hope  was  yet  so  far  off 
he  could  not  grasp  it.  Yet,  in  a  dim,  unacknowl- 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  67 

edged  way  it  influenced  him.  He  returned  to  his 
money-making  with  renewed  vigor.  It  was  evi- 
dent he  had  let  the  hope  of  Colin' s  return  steal 
into  his  heart.  And  the  giving  of  that  ^4,000 
Tallisker  considered  almost  a  sign  of  grace.  It 
had  not  been  given  from  any  particularly  noble 
motive;  but  any  motive,  not  sinful,  roused  in  op- 
position to  simple  avarice,  was  a  gain.  He  was 
quite  determined  now  to  find  Colin  as  soon  as  he 
returned  from  America. 

In  rather  less  than  six  months  there  were  a 
few  lines  from  Colin,  saying  that  the  money  sent 
had  been  applied  to  the  proper  purpose,  and  had 
nobly  fulfilled  it.  The  laird  had  said  he  wanted 
no  explanations,  and  Colin  gave  him  none. 

Tallisker  read  the  letter  with  a  half  smile. 

"He  is  just  the  maist  contrary,  conceited 
young  man  I  e'er  heard  tell  o\  Laird,  as  he 
wont  come  to  us,  I  am  going  to  him." 

The  laird  said  nothing.  Any  grief  is  better 
than  a  grief  not  sure.  It  would  be  a  relief  to 
know  all,  even  if  that  "  all "  were  painful. 


68  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Tallisker  was  a  man  as  quick  in  action  as  in 
resolve ;  the  next  night  he  left  for  London.  It 
was  no  light  journey  in  those  days  for  a  man  of 
his  years,  and  who  had  never  in  all  his  life  been 
farther  away  from  Perthshire  than  Edinburgh. 
But  he  feared  nothing.  He  was  going  into  the 
wilderness  after  his  own  stray  sheep,  and  he  had 
a  conviction  that  any  path  of  duty  is  a  safe  path. 
He  said  little  to  any  one.  The  people  looked 
strangely  on  him.  He  almost  fancied  himself  to 
be  Christian  going  through  Vanity  Fair. 

He  went  first  to  Colin' s  old  address  in  Re- 
gent's Place.  He  did  not  expect  to  find  him 
there,  but  it  might  lead  him  to  the  right  place. 
Number  34  Regent's  Place  proved  to  be  a  very 
grand  house.  As  he  went  up  to  the  door,  an 
open  carriage,  containing  a  lady  and  a  child,  left 
it.  A  man  dressed  in  the  Crawford  tartan  opened 
the  door. 

"Crawford?"  inquired  Tallisker,  "is  he  at 
home  ?' ' 

"  Yes,  he  is  at  home  ;"  and  the  servant  ush- 
ered him  into  a  carefully-shaded  room,  where 
marble  statues  gleamed  in  dusk  corners  and  great 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  69 

flowering  plants  made  the  air  fresh  and  cool.  It 
was  the  first  time  Tallisker  had  ever  seen  a  calla 
lily,  and  he  looked  with  wonder  and  delight  at 
the  gleaming  flowers.  And  somehow  he  thought 
of  Helen.  Colin  sat  in  a  great  leathern  chair 
reading.  He  did  not  lift  his  head  until  the  door 
closed  and  he  was  sensible  the  servant  had  left 
some  one  behind.  Then  for  a  moment  he  could 
hardly  realize  who  it  was ;  but  when  he  did,  he 
came  forward  with  a  glad  cry. 

* (  Dominie !     O  Tallisker !' ' 

"Just  so,  Colin,  my  dear  lad.  O  Colin,  you 
are  the  warst  man  I  ever  kenned.  You  had  a 
good  share  o'  original  sin  to  start  wi',  but  what 
wi'  pride  and  self-will  and  ill-will,  the  old  trou- 
ble is  sairly  increased. ' ' 

Colin  smiled  gravely.  "I  think  you  misjudge 
me,  dominie. ' '  Then  refreshments  were  sent  for, 
and  the  two  men  sat  down  for  a  long  mutual  con- 
fidence. 

Colin' s  life  had  not  been  uneventful.  He 
told  it  frankly,  without  reserve  and  without 
pride.  When  he  quarrelled  with  his  father  about 
entering  Parliament,  he  left  Rome  at  once,  and 
went  to  Canada.  He  had  some  idea  of  joining 
his  lot  with  his  own  people  there.  But  he  found 
them  in  a  state  of  suffering  destitution.  They 
had  been  unfortunate  in  their  choice  of  location, 


7°  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

and  were  enduring  an  existence  barer  than  the 
one  they  had  left,  without  any  of  its  redeeming 
features.  Colin  gave  them  all  he  had,  and  left 
them  with  promises  of  future  aid. 

Then  he  went  to  New  York.  When  he  ar- 
rived, there  was  an  intense  excitement  over  the 
struggle  then  going  on  in  the  little  republic  of 
Texas.  He  found  out  something  about  the  coun- 
try; as  for  the  struggle,  it  was  the  old  struggle  of 
freedom  against  papal  and  priestly  dominion. 
That  was  a  quarrel  for  which  Scotchmen  have 
always  been  ready  to  draw  the  sword.  It  was 
Scotland's  old  quarrel  in  the  New  World,  and 
Colin  went  into  it  heart  and  soul.  His  reward 
had  been  an  immense  tract  of  the  noble  rolling 
Colorado  prairie.  Then  he  determined  to  bring 
the  Crawfords  down,  and  plant  them  in  this 
garden  of  the  Lord.  It  was  for  this  end  he  had 
written  to  his  father  for  ^4,000.  This  sum  had 
sufficed  to  transplant  them  to  their  new  home, 
and  give  them  a  start.  He  had  left  them  happy 
and  contented,  and  felt  now  that  in  this  matter  he 
had  absolved  his  conscience  of  all  wrong. 

"  But  you  ought  to  hae  told  the  laird.  It 
was  vera  ill-considered.  It  was  his  affair  more 
than  yours.  I  like  the  thing  you  did,  Colin,  but 
I  hate  the  way  you  did  it.  One  shouldna  be  self- 
ish even  in  a  good  wark." 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  71 

"  It  was  the  laird's  own  fault;  he  would  not 
let  me  explain. ' ' 

"  Colin,  are  you  married?" 

' '  Yes.  I  married  a  Boston  lady.  I  have  a 
son  three  years  old.  My  wife  was  in  Texas  with 
me.  She  had  a  large  fortune  of  her  own.'' 

u  You  are  a  maist  respectable  man,  Colin,  but 
I  dinna  like  it  at  all.  What  are  you  doing  wi' 
your  time ?  This  grand  house  costs  something." 

"I  am  an  artist — a  successful  one,  if  that  is 
not  also  against  me." 

u  Your  father  would  think  sae.  Oh,  my  dear 
lad,  you  hae  gane  far  astray  from  the  old  Craw- 
ford ways. ' ' 

' '  I  cannot  help  that,  dominie.  I  must  live 
according  to  my  light.  I  am  sorry  about  father." 

Then  the  dominie  in  the  most  forcible  man- 
ner painted  the  old  laird's  hopes  and  cruel  disap- 
pointments. There  were  tears  in  Colin' s  eyes  as 
he  reasoned  with  him.  And  at  this  point  his  own 
son  came  into  the  room.  Perhaps  for  the  first 
time  Colin  looked  at  the  lad  as  the  future  heir  of 
Crawford.  A  strange  thrill  of  family  and  national 
pride  stirred  his  heart.  He  threw  the  little  fellow 
shoulder  high,  and  in  that  moment  regretted  that 
he  had  flung  away  the  child's  chance  of  being 
Earl  of  Crawford.  He  understood  then  something 
of  the  anger  and  suffering  his  father  had  endured, 


72  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

and  he  put  the  boy  down  very  solemnly.  For  if 
Colin  was  anything,  he  was  just;  if  his  father  had 
been  his  bitterest  enemy,  he  would,  at  this  mo- 
ment, have  acknowledged  his  own  aggravation. 

Then  Mrs.  Crawford  came  in.  She  had  heard 
all  about  the  dominie,  and  she  met  him  like  a 
daughter.  Colin  had  kept  his  word.  This  fair, 
sunny-haired,  blue-eyed  woman  was  the  wife  he 
had  dreamed  about;  and  Tallisker  told  him  he 
had  at  any  rate  done  right  in  that  matter.  "The 
bonnie  little  Republican,"  as  he  called  her, 
queened  it  over  the  dominie  from  the  first  hour  of 
their  acquaintance. 

He  stayed  a  week  in  London,  and  during  it 
visited  Colin' s  studio.  He  went  there  at  Colin' s 
urgent  request,  but  with  evident  reluctance.  A 
studio  to  the  simple  dominie  had  almost  the  same 
worldly  flavor  as  a  theatre.  He  had  many  mis- 
givings as  they  went  down  Pall  Mall,  but  he  was 
soon  reassured.  There  was  a  singular  air  of 
repose  and  quiet  in  the  large,  cool  room.  And 
the  first  picture  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  reconciled 
him  to  Colin' s  most  un-Crawford-like  taste. 

It  was  u  The  Farewell  of  the  Emigrant  Clan." 
The  dominie's  knees  shook,  and  he  turned  pale 
with  emotion.  How  had  Colin  reproduced  that 
scene,  and  not  only  reproduced  but  idealized  it! 
There  were  the  gray  sea  and  the  gray  sky,  and 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  73 

the  gray  granite  boulder  rocks  on  which  the  chief 
stood,  the  waiting  ships,  and  the  loaded  boats, 
and  he  himself  in  the  prow  of  the  foremost  one. 
He  almost  felt  the  dear  old  hymn  thrilling  through 
the  still  room.  In  some  way,  too,  Colin  had 
grasped  the  grandest  points  of  his  father's  char- 
acter. In  this  picture  the  man's  splendid  physi- 
cal beauty  seemed  in  some  mysterious  way  to 
give  assurance  of  an  equally  splendid  spiritual 
nature. 

"  If  this  is  making  pictures,  Colin,  I  '11  no  say 
but  what  you  could  paint  a  sermon,  my  dear  lad. 
I  hae  ne'er  seen  a  picture  before."  Then  he 
turned  to  another,  and  his  swarthy  face  glowed 
with  an  intense  emotion.  There  was  a  sudden 
sense  of  tightening  in  his  throat,  and  he  put  his 
hand  up  and  slowly  raised  his  hat.  It  was  Prince 
Charlie  entering  Edinburgh.  The  handsome,  un- 
fortunate youth  rode  bareheaded  amid  the  Gor- 
dons and  the  Hurrays  and  a  hundred  Highland 
noblemen.  The  women  had  their  children  shoul- 
der high  to  see  him,  the  citizens,  bonnets  up, 
were  pressing  up  to  his  bridle-rein.  It  stirred 
Tallisker  like  a  peal  of  trumpets.  With  the  tears 
streaming  down  his  glowing  face,  he  cried  out, 

' '  How  daur  ye,  sir !  You  are  just  the  warst 
rebel  between  the  seas  !  King  George  ought  to 
hang  you  up  at  Carlisle-gate.  And  this  is  paint- 


74  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

ing  !  This  is  artist's  wark  !  And  you  choose 
your  subjects  wisely,  Colin:  it  is  a  gift  the  angels 
might  be  proud  o'."  He  lingered  long  in  the 
room,  and  when  he  left  it,  "  Prince  Charlie  "  and 
the  "Clan's  Farewell"  were  his  own.  They 
were  to  go  back  with  him  to  the  manse  at 
Crawford. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  75 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IT  was,  upon  the  whole,  a  wonderful  week  to 
Tallisker;  he  returned  home  with  the  determina- 
tion that  the  laird  must  recall  his  banished.  He 
had  tried  to  induce  Colin  to  condone  all  past 
grievances,  but  Colin  had,  perhaps  wisely,  said 
that  he  could  not  go  back  upon  a  momentary 
impulse.  The  laird  must  know  all,  and  accept 
him  just  as  he  was.  He  had  once  been  requested 
not  to  come  home  unless  he  came  prepared  to 
enter  into  political  life.  He  had  refused  the  alter- 
native then,  and  he  should  refuse  it  again.  The 
laird  must  understand  these  things,  or  the  quarrel 
would  probably  be  renewed,  perhaps  aggravated. 

And  Tallisker  thought  that,  in  this  respect, 
Colin  was  right.  He  would  at  any  rate  hide 
nothing  from  the  laird,  he  should  know  all;  and 
really  he  thought  he  ought  to  be  very  grateful 
that  the  "  all "  was  so  much  better  than  might 
have  been. 

The  laird  was  not  glad.  A  son  brought  down 
to  eat  the  husk  of  evil  ways,  poor,  sick,  suppliant, 
would  have  found  a  far  readier  welcome.  He 
would  gladly  have  gone  to  meet  Colin,  even  while 
he  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  only  he  wanted  Colin 


76  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

to  be  weary  and  footsore  and  utterly  dependent 
on  his  love.  He  heard  with  a  grim  silence  Tal- 
lisker's  description  of  the  house  in  Regent's  Place, 
with  its  flowers  and  books,  its  statues,  pictures, 
and  conservatory.  When  Tallisker  told  him  of 
the  condition  of  the  Crawfords  in  Canada,  he  was 
greatly  moved.  He  was  interested  and  pleased 
with  the  Texan  struggle.  He  knew  nothing  of 
Texas,  had  never  heard  of  the  country,  but  Mex- 
icans, Spaniards,  and  the  Inquisition  were  one  in 
his  mind. 

"That  at  least  was  Crawford-like,"  he  said 
warmly,  when  told  of  Colin' s  part  in  the  strug- 
gle. 

But  the  subsequent  settlement  of  the  clan  there 
hurt  him  terribly.  ' '  He  should  hae  told  me.  He 
shouldna  hae  minded  what  I  said  in  such  a  case. 
I  had  a  right  to  know.  Colin  has  used  me  vera 
hardly  about  this.  Has  he  not,  Tallisker?" 

"  Yes,  laird,  Colin  was  vera  wrrong  there.  He 
knows  it  now. ' ' 

"What  is  he  doing  in  such  a  grand  house? 
How  does  he  live?" 

' '  He  is  an  artist — a  vera  great  one,  I  should 
say. ' ' 

' '  He  paints  pictures  for  a  living  !  He  !  A 
Crawford  o'  Traquare !  I  '11  no  believe  it,  Tal- 
lisker." 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  77 

"  There 's  naught  to  fret  about,  laird.  You  '11 
ken  that  some  day.  Then  his  wife  had  money. ' ' 

' '  His  wife  !  Sae  he  is  married.  That  is  o'  a 
piece  wi'  the  rest.  Wha  is  she  ?' ' 

"  He  married  an  American — a  Boston  lady." 

Then  the  laird's  passion  was  no  longer  con- 
trollable, and  he  said  some  things  the  dominie 
was  very  angry  at. 

' '  Laird, ' '  he  answered,  ' (  Mrs.  Colin  Crawford 
is  my  friend.  You  '11  no  daur  to  speak  any  way 
but  respectful  o'  her  in  my  presence.  She  is  as 
good  as  any  Crawford  that  ever  trod  the  heather. 
She  came  o'  the  English  Hampdens.  Whar  will 
ye  get  better  blood  than  that  ?' ' 

u  No  Hampdens  that  ever  lived — " 

"Whist!  Whist,  laird!  The  Crawfords  are 
like  a'  ither  folk ;  they  have  twa  legs  and  twa 
hands. ' ' 

"He  should  hae  married  a  Scots  lass,  though 
she  had  carried  a  milking-pail. ' ' 

' '  Laird,  let  me  tell  you  there  will  be  nae  spe- 
cial heaven  for  the  Gael.  They  that  want  to  go 
to  heaven  by  themsel's  arena  likely  to  win  there 
at  a'.  You  may  as  well  learn  to  live  with  ither 
folk  here;  you  '11  hae  to  do  it  to  a'  eternity." 

"If  I  get  to  heaven,  Dominie  Tallisker,  I'll 
hae  special  graces  for  the  place.  I  'm  no  going  to 
put  mysel'  in  a  blazing  passion  for  you  to-night. 


78  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Yon  London  woman  has  bewitched  you.     She 's 
wanting  to  come  to  the  Keep,  I  '11  warrant." 

"If  ye  saw  the  hame  she  has  you  wouldna 
warrant  your  ain  word  a  minute  longer,  laird. 
And  I'm  sure  I  dinna  see  what  she  would  want 
to  hae  twa  Crawfords  to  guide  for.  One  is  mair 
than  enough  whiles.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  how 
good  women  put  up  wi'  us  at  all !" 

"Humff!"   said   the  laird   scornfully.      "Too 
many  words  on  a  spoiled  subject." 

"I  must  say  one  mair,  though.  There  is  a 
little  lad,  a  bonnie,  brave,  bit  fellow,  your  ain 
grandson,  Crawford." 

"An  American  Crawford!"  And  the  laird 
laughed  bitterly.  "A  foreigner!  an  alien!  a 
Crawford  born  in  England  !  Guid-night,  Tallis- 
ker  !  We'll  drop  the  subject,  an  it  please  you." 

Tallisker  let  it  drop.  He  had  never  expected 
the  laird  to  give  in  at  the  first  cry  of  ' '  Surren- 
der. ' '  But  he  reflected  that  the  winter  was  com- 
ing, and  that  its  long  nights  would  give  plenty  of 
time  for  thought  and  plenty  of  opportunities  for 
further  advocacy.  He  wrote  constantly  to  Colin 
and  his  wife,  perhaps  oftener  to  Mrs.  Crawford 
than  to  the  young  laird,  for  she  was  a  woman  of 
great  tact  and  many  resources,  and  Tallisker  be- 
lieved in  her. 

Crawford  had  said  a  bitter  word  about  her 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  79 

coming  to  the  Keep,  and  Tallisker  could  not  help 
thinking  what  a  blessing  she  would  be  there;  for 
one  of  Crawford's  great  troubles  now  was  the 
wretchedness  of  his  household  arrangements.  The 
dainty  cleanliness  and  order  which  had  ruled  it 
during  Helen's  life  were  quite  departed.  The  gar- 
den was  neglected,  and  all  was  disorder  and  dis- 
comfort. Now  it  is  really  wonderful  how  much 
of  the  solid  comfort  of  life  depends  upon  a  well- 
arranged  home,  and  the  home  must  depend  upon 
some  woman.  Men  may  mar  the  happiness  of  a 
household,  but  they  cannot  make  it.  Women  are 
the  happiness  makers.  The  laird  never  thought 
of  it  in  this  light,  but  he  did  know  that  he  was 
very  uncomfortable. 

' '  I  canna  even  get  my  porridge  made  right, ' ' 
he  said  fretfully  to  the  dominie. 

"You  should  hae  a  proper  person  o'er  them 
ne'er-do-weel  servants  o'  yours,  laird.  I  ken  one 
that  will  do  you." 

"Whaisshe?" 

"A  Mrs.  Hope." 

"  A  widow?" 

u  No,  not  a  widow,  but  she  is  not  living  with 
her  husband." 

"Then  she'll  ne'er  win  into  my  house,  do- 
minie. ' ' 

' '  She  has  good  and  sufficient  reasons.     I  up- 


80  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

hold  her.  Do  you  think  I  would  sanction  aught 
wrong,  laird?" 

No  more  was  said  at  that  time,  but  a  month 
afterwards  Mrs.  Hope  had  walked  into  the  Keep 
and  taken  everything  in  her  clever  little  hands. 
Drunken,  thieving,  idle  servants  had  been  re- 
placed by  men  and  women  thoroughly  capable 
and  efficient.  The  laird's  tastes  were  studied, 
his  wants  anticipated,  his  home  became  bright, 
restful,  and  quiet.  The  woman  was  young  and 
wonderfully  pretty,  and  Crawford  soon  began  to 
watch  her  with  a  genuine  interest. 

"She'll  be  ane  o'  the  Hopes  o'  Beaton,"  he 
thought;  "she  is  vera  like  them." 

At  any  rate  he  improved  under  her  sway,  for 
being  thoroughly  comfortable  himself,  he  was  in- 
clined to  have  consideration  for  others. 

One  afternoon,  as  he  came  from  the  works,  it 
began  to  snow.  He  turned  aside  to  the  manse  to 
borrow  a  plaid  of  Tallisker.  He  very  seldom 
went  to  the  manse,  but  in  the  keen,  driving  snow 
the  cheerful  fire  gleaming  through  the  window 
looked  very  inviting.  He  thought  he  would  go 
in  and  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  Tallisker. 

"  Come  awa  in,  laird,"  cried  old  Janet,  "come 
awa  in.  You  are  a  sight  good  for  sair  e'en.  The 
dominie  will  be  back  anon,  and  I  '11  gie  ye  a  drap 
o'  hot  tay  till  he  comes." 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STKAIT.  81 

So  the  laird  went  in,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw 
was  Colin's  picture  of  "The  Clan's  Farewell." 
It  moved  him  to  his  very  heart.  He  divined  at 
once  whose  work  it  was,  and  he  felt  that  it  was 
wonderful.  It  must  be  acknowledged,  too,  that 
he  was  greatly  pleased  with  Colin's  conception  of 
himself. 

"I'm  no  a  bad-looking  Crawford,"  he  thought 
complacently ;  ' '  the  lad  has  had  a  vera  clear  no- 
tion o'  what  he  was  doing." 

Personal  flattery  is  very  subtle  and  agreeable. 
Colin  rose  in  his  father's  opinion  that  hour. 

Then  he  turned  to  Prince  Charlie.  How 
strange  is  that  vein  of  romantic  loyalty  marbling 
the  granite  of  Scotch  character  !  The  common- 
place man  of  coal  and  iron  became  in  the  presence 
of  his  ideal  prince  a  feudal  chieftain  again.  His 
heart  swelled  to  that  pictured  face  as  the  great  sea 
swells  to  the  bending  moon.  He  understood  in 
that  moment  how  his  fathers  felt  it  easy  to  pin  on 
the  white  cockade  and  give  up  everything  for  an 
impossible  loyalty. 

The  dominie  found  him  in  this  mood.  He 
turned  back  to  every-day  life  with  a  sigh. 

"Weel,  dominie,  you  are  a  man  o'  taste. 
When  did  you  begin  buying  pictures?" 

' '  I  hae  no  money  for  pictures,  laird.  The  art- 
ist gave  me  them. ' ' 

II 


82  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

a  You  mean  Colin  Crawford  gave  you  them." 

"That  is  what  I  mean." 

"Weel,  I'm  free  to  say  Colin  kens  how  to 
choose  grand  subjects.  I  didna  think  there  was 
so  much  in  a  picture.  I  wouldna  dare  to  keep 
that  poor  dear  prince  in  my  house.  I  shouldna 
be  worth  a  bawbee  at  the  works.  It  was  a  won- 
derfu'  wise  step,  that  forbidding  o'  pictures  in  the 
kirks.  I  can  vera  weel  see  how  they  would  lead 
to  a  sinfu'  idolatry." 

"  Yes,  John  Knox  kent  well  the  temper  o1  the 
metal  he  had  to  work.  There 's  nae  greater  hero- 
worshippers  than  Scots  folk.  They  are  aye  ma- 
king idols  for  themsel's.  Whiles  it's  Wallace, 
then  it's  Bruce  or  Prince  Charlie;  nay,  there  are 
decent,  pious  folk  that  gie  Knox  hirnsel'  a  honor- 
ing he  wouldna  thank  them  for.  But,  laird,  there 
is  a  mair  degraded  idolatry  still — that  o'  gold. 
We  are  just  as  ready  as  ever  the  Jews  were  to  fall 
down  before  a  calf,  an'  it  only  be  a  golden  one." 

"  Let  that  subject  alane,  dominie.  It  will  tak 
a  jury  o'  rich  men  to  judge  rich  men.  A  poor 
man  isna  competent.  The  rich  hae  straits  the 
poor  canna  fathom. ' ' 

And  then  he  saw  in  light  as  clear  as  crystal  a 
slip  of  paper  hid  away  in  a  secret  drawer. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  little  lad  bairn  entered 
the  room;  a  child  with  bright,  daring  eyes,  and  a 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  83 

comically  haughty,  confident  manner.  He  at- 
tracted Crawford's  attention  at  once. 

"What 's  your  name,  my  wee  man ?" 

"  Alexander  is  my  name." 

' '  That  is  my  name. ' ' 

"It  is  not,"  he  answered  positively;  "don't 
say  that  any  more. ' ' 

"Will  you  hae  a  sixpence?" 

"  Yes,  I  will.  Money  is  good.  It  buys  sweet- 
ies. ' ' 

"Whose  boy  is  that,  dominie?" 

"Mrs.  Hope's.  I  thought  he  would  annoy 
you.  He  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me. ' ' 

"  Let  him  come  up  to  the  Keep  whiles.  I  '11 
no  mind  him." 

When  he  rose  to  go  he  stood  a  moment  before 
each  picture,  and  then  suddenly  asked, 

' '  Whar  is  young  Crawford  ?' ' 

"In  Rome." 

' '  A  nice  place  for  him  to  be  !  He  'd  be  in  Bab- 
ylon, doubtless,  if  it  was  on  the  face  o'  the  earth." 

When  he  went  home  he  shut  himself  in  his 
room  and  almost  stealthily  took  out  that  slip  of 
paper.  It  had  begun  to  look  yellow  and  faded, 
and  Crawford  had  a  strange  fancy  that  it  had  a 
sad,  pitiful  appearance.  He  held  it  in  his  hand  a 
few  moments  and  then  put  it  back  again.  It 
would  be  the  new  year  soon,  and  he  would  decide 


84  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

then.     He  had  made  similar  promises  often;  they 
always  gave  him  temporary  comfort. 

Then  gradually  another  element  of  pleasure 
crept  into  his  life — Mrs.  Hope's  child.  The  boy 
amused  him ;  he  never  resented  his  pretty,  au- 
thoritative ways;  a  queer  kind  of  companionship 
sprang  up  between  them.  It  was  one  of  perfect 
equality  every  way ;  an  old  man  easily  becomes 
a  little  child.  And  those  who  only  knew  Craw- 
ford among  coals  and  pig  iron  would  have  been 
amazed  to  see  him  keeping  up  a  mock  dispute 
with  this  baby. 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  85 


CHAPTER  X. 

day,  getting  towards  the  end  of  Decem- 
ber, the  laird  awoke  in  a  singular  mood.  He 
had  no  mind  to  go  to  the  works,  and  the  weather 
promised  to  give  him  a  good  excuse.  Over  the 
dreary  hills  there  was  a  mournful  floating  veil  of 
mist.  Clouds  were  flying  rapidly  in  great  masses, 
and  showers  streaming  through  the  air  in  disor- 
dered ranks,  driven  furiously  before  a  mad  wind — 
a  wind  that  before  noon  shook  the  doors  and  win- 
dows, and  drove  the  bravest  birds  into  hiding. 

The  laird  wandered  restlessly  up  and  down. 

"There  is  the  dominie,"  cried  Mrs.  Hope, 
about  one  o'clock.  "What  brings  him  here 
through  such  a  storm  ?' ' 

Crawford  walked  to  the  door  to  meet  him. 
He  came  striding  over  the  soaking  moor  with  his 
plaid  folded  tightly  around  him  and  his  head  bent 
before  the  blast.  He  was  greatly  excited. 

"Crawford,  come  wi'  me.  The  Athol  pas- 
senger packet  is  driving  before  this  wind,  and 
there  is  a  fishing  smack  in  her  wake." 

' '  Gie  us  some  brandy  wi'  us,  Mrs.  Hope,  and 
you'll  hae  fires  and  blankets  and  a'  things  need- 
fu'  in  case  o'  accident,  ma'am."  He  was  putting 


86  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

on  his  bonnet  and  plaid  as  he  spoke,  and  in  five 
minutes  the  men  were  hastening  to  the  seaside. 

It  was  a  deadly  coast  to  be  on  in  a  storm  with 
a  gale  blowing  to  land.  A  long  reef  of  sharp 
rocks  lay  all  along  it,  and  now  the  line  of  foam- 
ing breakers  was  to  any  ship  a  terrible  omen  of 
death  and  destruction.  The  packet  was  almost 
helpless,  and  the  laird  and  Tallisker  found  a 
crowd  of  men  waiting  the  catastrophe  that  was 
every  moment  imminent. 

"  She  ought  to  hae  gien  hersel'  plenty  o'  sea 
room,"  said  the  laird.  He  was  half  angry  to  see 
all  the  interest  centred  on  the  packet.  The  little 
fishing  cobble  was  making,  in  his  opinion,  a  far 
more  sensible  struggle  for  existence.  She  was 
managing  her  small  resources  with  desperate 
skill. 

"Tallisker,"  said  the  laird,  "you  stay  here 
with  these  men.  Rory  and  I  are  going  half  a 
mile  up  the  coast.  If  the  cobble  drives  on  shore, 
the  current  will  take  a  boat  as  light  as  she  is  over 
the  Bogie  Rock  and  into  the  surf  yonder.  There 
are  doubtless  three  or  four  honest  men  in  her, 
quite  as  weel  worth  the  saving  as  those  stranger 
merchant  bodies  that  will  be  in  the  packet." 

So  Crawford  and  Rory  hastened  to  the  point 
they  had  decided  on,  and  just  as  they  reached  it 
the  boat  became  unmanageable.  The  wind  took 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  87 

her  in  its  teeth,  shook  her  a  moment  or  two  like  a 
thing  of  straw  and  rags,  and  then  flung  her,  keel 
upwards,  on  the  Bogie  Rock.  Two  of  the  men 
were  evidently  good  swimmers;  the  others  were  a 
boy  and  an  old  man.  Crawford  plunged  boldly 
in  after  the  latter.  The  waves  buffeted  him,  and 
flung  him  down,  and  lifted  him  up,  but  he  wras  a 
fine  surf  swimmer,  and  he  knew  every  rock  on 
that  dangerous  coast.  After  a  hard  struggle,  all 
were  brought  safe  to  land. 

Then  they  walked  back  to  where  the  packet 
had  been  last  seen.  She  had  gone  to  pieces.  A 
few  men  waited  on  the  beach,  picking  up  the 
dead,  and  such  boxes  and  packages  as  were  dashed 
on  shore.  Only  three  of  all  on  board  had  been 
rescued,  and  they  had  been  taken  to  the  Keep  for 
succor  and  rest. 

The  laird  hastened  home.  He  had  not  felt  as 
young  for  many  years.  The  struggle,  though  one 
of  life  and  death,  had  not  wearied  him  like-a  day's 
toil  at  the  works,  for  it  had  been  a  struggle  to 
which  the  soul  had  girded  itself  gladly,  and  helped 
and  borne  with  it  the  mortal  body.  He  came  in 
all  glowing  and  glad ;  a  form  lay  on  his  own 
couch  before  the  fire.  The  dominie  and  Mrs. 
Hope  were  bending  over  it.  As  he  entered,  Mrs. 
Hope  sprang  forward — 

"Father!" 


88  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

4 '  Eh  ?     Father  ?    What  is  this  ?' ' 

"Father,  it  is  Colin." 

Then  he  knew  it  all.  Colin  stretched  out  a 
feeble  hand  towards  him.  He  was  sorely  bruised 
and  hurt,  he  was  white  and  helpless  and  death- 
like. 

"Father!" 

And  the  father  knelt  down  beside  him.  Wife 
and  friend  walked  softly  away.  In  the  solemn 
moment  when  these  two  long-parted  souls  met 
again  there  was  no  other  love  that  could  inter- 
meddle. 

u  My  dear  father — forgive  me  !" 

Then  the  laird  kissed  his  recovered  son,  and 
said  tenderly, 

"  Son  Colin,  you  are  all  I  have,  and  all  I  have 
is  yours. ' ' 

u  Father,  my  wife  and  son." 

Then  the  old  man  proudly  and  fondly  kissed 
Hope  Crawford  too,  and  he  clasped  the  little  lad 
in  his  arms.  He  was  well  pleased  that  Hope  had 
thought  it  worth  while  to  minister  to  his  comfort, 
and  let  him  learn  how  to  know  her  fairly. 

"  But  it  was  your  doing,  Tallisker,  I  ken  it 
was;  it  has  your  mark  on  it."  And  he  grasped 
his  old  friend's  hand  with  a  very  hearty  grip. 

"  Not  altogether,  laird.  Colin  had  gone  to 
Rome  on  business,  and  you  were  in  sair  discom- 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  89 

fort,  and  I  just  named  it  to  Mrs.  Hope.  After  a' 
it  was  her  proposal.  Naebody  but  a  woman 
would  hae  thought  o'  such  a  way  to  win  round 
you. ' ' 

Perhaps  it  was  well  that  Colin  was  sick  and 
very  helpless  for  some  weeks.  During  them  the 
two  men  learned  to  understand  and  to  respect 
each  other's  peculiarities.  Crawford  himself  was 
wonderfully  happy;  he  would  not  let  any  thought 
of  the  past  darken  his  heart.  He  looked  forward 
as  hopefully  as  if  he  were  yet  on  the  threshold  of 
life. 

O  mystery  of  life!  from  what  depths  proceed 
thy  comforts  and  thy  lessons!  One  morning  at 
very  early  dawn  Crawford  awoke  from  a  deep 
sleep  in  an  indescribable  awe.  In  some  vision  of 
the  night  he  had  visited  that  piteous  home  which 
memory  builds,  and  where  only  in  sleep  we  walk. 
Whom  had  he  seen  there?  What  message  had 
he  received?  This  he  never  told.  He  had 
been  ' ( spoken  to. ' ' 

Tallisker  was  not  the  man  to  smile  at  any 
such  confidence.  He  saw  no  reason  why  God's 
messengers  should  not  meet  his  children  in  the 
border-land  of  dreams.  Thus  he  had  counselled 
and  visited  the  patriarchs  and  prophets  of  old. 
He  was  a  God  who  change th  not;  and  if  he  had 

chosen  to  send  Crawford  a  message  in  this  way,  it 

12 


9O  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

was  doubtless  some  special  word,  for  some  special 
duty  or  sorrow.  But  he  had  really  no  idea  of 
what  Crawford  had  come  to  confess  to  him. 

"  Tallisker,  I  hae  been  a  man  in  a  sair  strait 
for  many  a  year.  I  hae  not  indeed  hid  the  Lord's 
talent  in  a  napkin,  but  I  hae  done  a  warse  thing; 
I  hae  been  trading  wi'  it  for  my  ain  proper  advan- 
tage. O  dominie,  I  hae  been  a  wretched  man 
through  it  all.  Nane  ken  better  than  I  what  a 
hard  master  the  deil  is." 

Then  he  told  the  dominie  of  Helen's  bequest. 
He  went  over  all  the  arguments  with  which  he 
had  hitherto  quieted  his  conscience,  and  he  anx- 
iously watched  their  effect  upon  Tallisker.  He 
had  a  hope  even  yet  that  the  dominie  might 
think  them  reasonable.  But  the  table  at  which 
they  sat  was  not  less  demonstrative  than  Tallis- 
ker's  face;  for  once  he  absolutely  controlled  him- 
self till  the  story  was  told.  Then  he  said  to 
Crawford, 

"  I  '11  no  tak  any  responsibility  in  a  matter  be- 
tween you  and  your  conscience.  If  you  gie  it, 
gie  it  without  regret  and  without  holding  back. 
Gie  it  cheerfully ;  God  loves  a  cheerful  giver. 
But  it  isna  wi'  me  you'll  find  the  wisdom  to 
guide  you  in  this  matter.  Shut  yoursel'  in  your 
ain  room,  and  sit  down  at  the  foot  o'  the  cross 
and  think  it  out.  It  is  a  big  sum  to  gie  away, 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  91 

but  maybe,  in  the  face  o'  that  stupendous  Sacri- 
fice it  willna  seem  so  big.  I'll  walk  up  in  the 
evening,  laird ;  perhaps  you  will  then  hae  deci- 
ded what  to  do." 

Crawford  was  partly  disappointed.  He  had 
hoped  that  Tallisker  would  in  some  way  take  the 
burden  from  him — he  had  instead  sent  him  to  the 
foot  of  the  cross.  He  did  not  feel  as  if  he  dared 
to  neglect  the  advice;  so  he  went  thoughtfully  to 
his  own  room  and  locked  the  door.  Then  he 
took  out  his  private  ledger.  Many  a  page  had 
been  written  the  last  ten  years.  It  was  the  book 
of  a  very  rich  man.  He  thought  of  all  his  en- 
gagements and  plans  and  hopes,  and  of  how  the 
withdrawal  of  so  large  a  sum  would  affect  them. 

Then  he  took  out  Helen's  last  message,  and 
sat  down  humbly  with  it  where  Tallisker  had 
told  him  to  sit.  Suddenly  Helen's  last  words 
came  back  to  him,  "Oh!  the  unspeakable  riches!" 
What  of?  The  cross  of  Christ — the  redemption 
from  eternal  death — the  promise  of  eternal  life! 

Sin  is  like  a  nightmare;  when  we  stir  under 
it,  we  awake.  Crawford  sat  thinking  until  his 
heart  burned  and  softened,  and  great  tears  rolled 
slowly  down  his  cheeks  and  dropped  upon  the  pa- 
per in  his  hands.  Then  he  thought  of  the  rich- 
ness of  his  own  life — Colin  and  Hope,  and  the  al- 
ready beloved  child  Alexander — of  his  happy 


92  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

home,  of  the  prosperity  of  his  enterprises,  of  his 
loyal  and  loving  friend  Tallisker.  What  a  con- 
trast to  the  Life  he  had  been  told  to  remember! 
that  pathetic  Life  that  had  not  where  to  lay  its 
head,  that  mysterious  agony  in  Gethsemane,  that 
sublime  death  on  Calvary,  and  he  cried  out,  "O 
Christ !  O  Saviour  of  my  soul !  all  that  I  have 
is  too  little!" 

When  Tallisker  came  in  the  evening,  Hope 
noticed  a  strange  solemnity  about  the  man.  He, 
too,  had  been  in  the  presence  of  God  all  day.  He 
had  been  praying  for  his  friend.  But  as  soon  as 
he  saw  Crawford  he  knew  how  the  struggle  had 
ended.  Quietly  they  grasped  each  other's  hand, 
and  the  evening  meal  was  taken  by  Colin' s  side 
in  pleasant  cheerfulness.  After  it,  when  all  were 
still,  the  laird  spoke: 

' '  Colin  and  Hope,  I  hae  something  I  ought  to 
tell  you.  When  your  sister  Helen  died  she  asked 
me  to  gie  her  share  o'  the  estate  to  the  poor 
children  of  our  Father.  I  had  intended  giving 
Helen  ^100,000.  It  is  a  big  sum,  and  I  hae  been 
in  a  sair  strait  about  it.  What  say  you,  Colin?" 

' '  My  dear  father,  I  say  there  is  only  one  way 
out  of  that  strait.  The  money  must  be  given  as 
Helen  wished  it.  Helen  was  a  noble  girl.  It 
was  just  like  her." 

"Ah,  Colin,  if  you  could  only  tell  what  a  bur- 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  93 

den  this  bit  o'  paper  has  been  to  me  !  I  left  the 
great  weight  at  the  foot  o'  the  cross  this  morning. ' ' 
As  he  spoke  the  paper  dropped  from  his  fingers 
and  fell  upon  the  table.  Colin  lifted  it  reverent- 
ly, and  kissed  it.  ' '  Father, ' '  he  said,  ' '  may  I 
keep  it  now'?  The  day  will  come  when  the 
Crawfords  will  think  with  more  pride  of  it  than 
of  any  parchment  they  possess." 

Then  there  was  an  appeal  to  Tallisker  about 
its  disposal.  "Laird,"  he  answered,  "such  a 
sum  must  be  handled  wi'  great  care.  It  is  not 
enough  to  gie  money,  it  must  be  gien  wisely." 
But  he  promised  to  take  on  himself  the  labor  of 
inquiry  into  different  charities,  and  the  considera- 
tion of  what  places  and  objects  needed  help  most. 
"But,  Crawford,"  he  said,  "if  you  hae  any 
special  desire,  I  think  it  should  be  regarded. ' ' 

Then  Crawford  said  he  had  indeed  one. 
When  he  was  himself  young  he  had  desired 
greatly  to  enter  the  ministry,  but  his  father  had 
laid  upon  him  a  duty  to  the  family  and  estate 
which  he  had  accepted  instead. 

"Now,  dominie,"  he  said,  "canna  I  keep 
aye  a  young  man  in  my  place  ?' ' 

"  It  is  a  worthy  thought,  Crawford." 

So  the  first  portion  of  Helen's  bequest  went 
to  Aberdeen  University.  This  endowment  has 
sent  out  in  Crawford's  place  many  a  noble  young 


94  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

inan  into  the  harvest-field  of  the  world,  and  who 
shall  say  for  how  many  centuries  it  will  keep  his 
name  green  in  earth  and  heaven  !  The  distribu- 
tion of  the  rest  does  not  concern  our  story.  It 
may  safely  be  left  in  Dominie  Tallisker's  hands. 

Of  course,  in  some  measure  it  altered  Craw- 
ford's plans.  The  new  house  was  abandoned  and 
a  wing  built  to  the  Keep  for  Colin' s  special  use. 
In  this  portion  the  young  man  indulged  freely 
his  poetic,  artistic  tastes.  And  the  laird  got  to 
like  it.  He  used  to  tread  softly  as  soon  as  his 
feet  entered  the  large  shaded  rooms,  full  of  skil- 
ful lights  and  white  gleaming  statues.  He  got 
to  enjoy  the  hot,  scented  atmosphere  and  rare 
blossoms  of  the  conservatory,  and  it  became  a 
daily  delight  to  him  to  sit  an  hour  in  Colin' s 
studio  and  watch  the  progress  of  some  favorite 
picture. 

But  above  all  his  life  was  made  rich  by  his 
grandson.  Nature,  as  she  often  does,  reproduced 
in  the  second  generation  what  she  had  totally 
omitted  in  the  first.  The  boy  was  his  grandfather 
over  again.  They  agreed  upon  every  point.  It 
was  the  laird  who  taught  Alexander  to  spear  a 
salmon,  and  throw  a  trout-line,  and  stalk  a  deer. 
They  had  constant  confidences  about  tackle  and 
guns  and  snares.  They  were  all  day  together  on 
the  hills.  The  works  pleased  the  boy  better  than 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  95 

his  father's  studio.  He  trotted  away  with  his 
grandfather  gladly  to  them.  The  fires  and  molten 
metal,  the  wheels  and  hammers  and  tumult,  were 
all  enchantments  to  him.  He  never  feared  to 
leap  into  a  collier's  basket  and  swing  down  the 
deep,  black  shaft.  He  had  also  an  appreciative 
love  of  money;  he  knew  just  how  many  sixpences 
he  owned,  and  though  he  could  give  if  asked  to 
do  so,  he  always  wanted  the  dominie  to  give  him 
a  good  reason  for  giving.  The  child  gave  him 
back  again  his  youth,  and  a  fuller  and  nobler  one 
than  he  himself  had  known. 

And  God  was  very  gracious  to  him,  and  length- 
ened out  this  second  youth  to  a  green  old  age. 
These  men  of  old  Gaul  had  iron  constitutions; 
they  did  not  begin  to  think  themselves  old  men 
until  they  had  turned  fourscore.  It  was  thirty 
years  after  Helen's  death  when  Tallisker  one 
night  sent  this  word  to  his  life-long  friend, 

UI  hae  been  called,  Crawford;  come  and  see 
me  once  more. ' ' 

They  all  went  together  to  the  manse.  The 
dominie  was  in  his  ninety-first  year,  and  he  was 
going  home.  No  one  could  call  it  dying.  He 
had  no  pain.  He  was  going  to  his  last  sleep 

"  As  sweetly  as  a  child, 

Whom  neither  thought  disturbs  nor  care  encumbers, 
Tired  with  long  play,  at  close  of  summer's  day 
J4es  down  and  slumbers." 


96  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

' '  Good-by,  Crawford— for  a  little  while.  We '  11 
liae  nae  tears.  I  hae  lived  joyfully  before  my  God 
these  ninety  years;  I  am  going  out  o'  the  sun- 
shine into  the  sunshine.  Crawford,  through  that 
sair  strait  o'  yours  you  hae  set  a  grand,  wide-open 
door  for  a  weight  o'  happiness.  I  am  glad  ye 
didna  wait.  A  good  will  is  a  good  thing,  but  a 
good  life  is  far  better.  It  is  a  grand  thing  to  sow 
your  ain  good  seed.  Nae  ither  hand  could  hae 
done  it  sae  well  and  sae  wisely.  Far  and  wide 
there  are  lads  and  lasses  growing  up  to  call  you 
blessed.  This  is  a  thought  to  niak  death  easy, 
Crawford.  Good-night,  dears." 

And  then  "God's  finger  touched  him  and  he 
slept." 

Crawford  lived  but  a  few  weeks  longer.  After 
the  dominie's  death  he  simply  sat  waiting.  His 
darling  Alexander  came  home  specially  to  bright- 
en these  last  hours,  and  in  his  company  he  showed 
almost  to  the  last  hour  the  true  Crawford  spirit. 

u  Alexander,"  he  would  say,  "  you  '11  ding  for 
your  ain  side  and  the  Crawfords  always,  but  you  '11 
be  a  good  man;  there  is  nae  happiness  else,  dear. 
Never  rest,  my  lad,  till  ye  sit  where  your  fathers 
sat  in  the  House  o'  Peers.  Stand  by  the  State 
and  the  Kirk,  and  fear  God,  Alexander.  The 
lease  o'  the  Cowden  Knowes  is  near  out;  don't 
renew  it.  Grip  tight  what  ye  hae  got,  but  pay 


CRAWFORD'S  SAIR  STRAIT.  97 

every  debt  as  if  God  wrote  the  bill.  Remember 
the  poor,  dear  lad.  Charity  gies  itsel'  rich. 
Riches  mak  to  themselves  wings,  but  charity 
clips  the  wings.  The  love  o'  God,  dear,  the  love 
o'  God— that  is  the  best  o'  all." 

Yes,  he  had  a  sair  struggle  with  his  lower 
nature  to  the  very  last,  but  he  was  constantly 
strengthened  by  the  conviction  of  a  "Power  closer 
to  him  than  breathing,  nearer  than  hands  or  feet. ' ' 
Nine  weeks  after  the  dominie's  death  they  found 
him  sitting  in  his  chair,  fallen  on  that  sleep  whose 
waking  is  eternal  day.  His  death  was  like  Tal- 
lisker's — a  perfectly  natural  one.  He  had  been 
reading.  The  Bible  lay  open  at  that  grand  pero- 
ration of  St.  Paul's  on  faith,  in  the  twelfth  of  He- 
brews. The  "great  cloud  of  witnesses,"  "  the  sin 
which  doth  so  easily  beset  us,"  "Jesus,  the  Author 
and  Finisher  of  our  faith" — these  were  probably 
his  last  earthly  thoughts,  and  with  them  he  passed 
into 

"  That  perfect  presence  of  His  face 
Which  we,  for  want  of  words,  call  heaven." 


James  Bladpe's  Revenge. 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE, 


CHAPTER  I. 

FEW  people  who  have  travelled  will  deny 
that  of  all  cities  Glasgow  is  apparently  the  least 
romantic.  Steeped  in  wet,  white  mist,  or  wrapped 
in  yellow  fog  vapor,  all  gray  stone  and  gray  sky, 
dirty  streets,  and  sloppy  people,  it  presents  none 
of  the  features  of  a  show  town.  Yet  it  has  great 
merits;  it  is  enterprising,  persevering,  intensely 
national,  and  practically  religious;  and  people 
who  do  not  mind  being  damp  have  every  chance 
to  make  a  good  living  there.  Even  the  sombre 
appearance  of  the  dark  gray  granite  of  which  it 
is  built  is  not  unsuitable  to  the  sterling  character 
of  its  people;  for  though  this  stone  may  be  dull 
and  ugly,  there  is  a  natural  nobility  about  it,  and 
it  never  can  be  mean. 

I  have  said  that,  as  a  city,  Glasgow  is  practi- 
cally religious,  and  certainly  this  was  the  case 
something  less  than  half  a  century  ago.  The 
number  of  its  churches  was  not  more  remarkable 


IO3  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

than  the  piety  and  learning  of  its  clergy;  and  the 
"skailing"  of  their  congregations  on  a  Sabbath 
afternoon  was  one  of  the  most  impressive  sights, 
of  its  kind,  in  the  world. 

My  true  little  story  opens  with  the  skailing  of 
the  Ramshorn  Kirk,  a  very  favorite  place  of  wor- 
ship with  the  well-to-do  burghers  of  the  east  end 
of  the  city,  and  it  was  a  peculiarly  douce,  decent, 
solemn-looking  crowd  that  slowly  and  reverently 
passed  out  of  its  gates  into  the  absolutely  silent 
streets.  For  no  vehicles  of  any  kind  disturbed 
the  Sabbath  stillness,  and  not  until  the  people 
had  gone  some  distance  from  the  house  of  God 
did  they  begin  to  think  their  own  thoughts,  and 
with  a  certain  grave  reserve  put  them  into  words. 

Among  the  groups  who  proceeded  still  far- 
ther east,  towards  the  pleasant  houses  facing  the 
"Green,"  one  alone  was  remarkable  enough  to 
have  elicited  special  notice  from  an  observing 
stranger.  It  consisted  of  an  old  man  and  a  young 
girl,  evidently  his  daughter.  Both  were  stri- 
kingly handsome,  and  the  girl  was  much  better 
dressed  than  the  majority  of  women  who  took  the 
same  road.  Long  before  they  reached  the  Green 
they  were  joined  by  a  younger  man,  whom  the 
elder  at  once  addressed  in  a  reproving  voice. 

"Ye  didna  pay  as  much  attention  to  the  ser- 
mon as  it  behooved  ye  to  do,  James  Blackie;  and 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S    REVENGE.  103 

what  for  did  ye  speak  to  Robert  Laird  a' most 
within  'the  Gates'?" 

"  I  only  asked  if  he  had  heard  of  the  '  Bonnie 
Bess;'  she  is  overdue  five  days,  and  eight  good 
men  in  her,  not  to  speak  of  the  cargo. ' ' 

"It's  no  cannie  to  be  aye  asking  questions. 
Sit  still  and  the  news  will  come  to  ye:  forbye, 
I'm  no  sure  if  yon  was  a  lawfu'  question;  the 
Sabbath  sun  hasna  set  yet." 

James  Blackie  mechanically  turned  to  the 
west,  and  then  slowly  let  his  glance  fall  on  the 
lovely  face  at  his  side. 

' '  Christine, ' '  he  asked  softly,  ' '  how  is  all 
with  you  ?' ' 

"All  is  well,  James." 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  until  they 
reached  David  Cameron's  home.  He  was  care- 
fully reconsidering  the  sermon — going  over  every 
point  on  his  finger  ends,  lest  he  should  drop  any 
link  of  the  argument;  and  James  and  Christine 
were  listening  to  his  criticisms  and  remarks. 
They  all  stopped  before  a  shop  over  the  windows 
of  which  was  painted,  "  David  Cameron,  Dealer 
in  Fine  Teas;"  and  David,  taking  a  large  key 
from  his  pocket,  opened  the  door,  and  said, 

"  Come  in  and  eat  wi'  us,  James;  ye  ken  ye  're 
welcome. ' ' 

"Our  friendship,  Mr.  Cameron,  is  a  kind  of 


104  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Montgomery  division — all  on  one  side,  nothing 
on  the  other;  but  I  am  'so  by  myself  that  I 
thank  you  heartily." 

So  David,  followed  by  Christine  and  James, 
passed  slowly  through  the  darkened  store,  with 
its  faint  smells  of  Eastern  spices  and  fragrant  teas, 
into  the  little  parlor  beyond.  The  early  winter 
night  had  now  fallen,  and  the  room,  having  only 
an  outlet  into  a  small  court,  would  have  been 
dark  also  but  for  the  red  glow  of  the  "covered " 
fire.  David  took  the  poker  and  struck  the  great 
block  of  coal,  and  instantly  the  cheerful  blaze 
threw  an  air  of  cosey  and  almost  picturesque  com- 
fort over  the  homelike  room. 

The  two  men  sat  down  beside  the  fire,  spread- 
ing their  hands  to  its  warmth,  and  apparently 
finding  their  own  thoughts  excellent  company, 
for  neither  of  them  spoke  or  moved  until  Chris- 
tine reappeared.  She  had  divested  herself  of  the 
handsome  black  satin  and  velvet  which  formed 
her  kirk  suit;  but  in  her  long,  plain  dress  of  gray 
winsey,  with  a  snowy  lawn  kerchief  and  cuffs, 
she  looked  still  more  fair  and  lovable. 

James  watched  her  as  she  spread  the  cloth 
and  produced  from  various  cupboards  cold  meats 
and  pastries,  bread  and  cakes,  and  many  kinds  of 
delicate  preserves  and  sweetmeats.  Her  large, 
shapely  hands  among  the  gold-and-white  china 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE.  105 

fascinated  him,  while  her  calm,  noiseless,  un- 
hurried movements  induced  a  feeling  of  passive 
repose  that  it  required  an  effort  to  dispel,  when 
she  said  in  a  low,  even  voice, 

' '  Father,  the  food  is  waiting  for  the  blessing. ' ' 
It  was  a  silent  but  by  no  means  an  unhappy 
meal.  David  was  a  good  man,  and  he  ate  his 
food  graciously  and  gratefully,  dropping  now  and 
then  a  word  of  praise  or  thanks;  and  James  felt 
it  delightful  enough  to  watch  Christine.  For 
James,  though  he  had  not  yet  admitted  the  fact 
to  his  own  heart,  loved  Christine  Cameron  as 
men  love  only  once,  with  that  deep,  pure  affec- 
tion that  has  perchance  a  nearer  kindred  than  this 
life  has  hinted  of. 

He  thought  her  also  exquisitely  beautiful, 
though  this  opinion  would  not  have  been  in- 
dorsed by  a  majority  of  men.  For  Christine  had 
one  of  those  pale,  statuesque  faces  apt  to  be  sol- 
emn in  repose;  its  beauty  was  tender  and  twi- 
light, its  expression  serious  and  steadfast,  and 
her  clear,  spiritual  eyes  held  in  them  no  light  of 
earthly  passion.  She  had  grown  up  in  that  little 
back  parlor  amid  the  din  and  tumult  of  the  city, 
under  the  gray,  rainy  skies,  and  surrounded  by 
care  and  sin,  as  a  white  lily  grows  out  of  the 
dark,  damp  soil,  drawing  from  the  elements 
around  only  sweetness  and  purity. 
14 


106  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

She  was  very  silent  this  afternoon,  but  appa- 
rently very  happy.  Indeed,  there  was  an  expres- 
sion on  her  face  which  attracted  her  father's  atten- 
tion, and  he  said, 

"The  sermon  has  pleased  thee  well,  I  see, 
Christine." 

' '  The  sermon  was  good,  but  the  text  was 
enough,  father.  I  think  it  over  in  my  heart,  and 
it  leaves  a  light  on  all  the  common  things  of  life." 
And  she  repeated  it  softly,  "  O  Thou  preserver  of 
men,  unto  Thee  shall  all  flesh  come." 

David  lifted  his  bonnet  reverently,  and  James, 
who  was  learned  in  what  the  Scotch  pleasantly 
call  "the  humanities,"  added  slowly, 

" '  But  I,  the  mortal, 

Planted  so  lowly,  with  death  to  bless  me, 
I  sorrow  no  longer.' " 

When  people  have  such  subjects  of  conversa- 
tion, they  talk  moderately — for  words  are  but 
poor  interpreters  of  emotions  whose  sources  lie  in 
the  depths  of  eternity.  But  they  were  none 
the  less  happy,  and  James  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
sitting  at  one  of  those  tables  which  the  Lord 
"preparefh  in  the  wilderness,"  where  the  "cup 
runneth  over ' '  with  joy  and  content. 

Such  moments  rarely  last  long;  and  it  is 
doubtful  if  we  could  bear  to  keep  the  soul  always 
to  its  highest  bent.  When  Christine  had  sided 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  1 07 

away  the  dishes  and  put  in  order  the  little  room, 
David  laid  down  his  pipe,  and  said,  "The  Lord's 
day  being  now  over,  I  may  speak  anent  my  ain 
matters.  I  had  a  letter,  Christine,  on  Saturday, 
from  my  brother-in-law,  McFarlane.  He  says 
young  Donald  will  be  in  Glasgow  next  week." 

"Will  he  stay  here,  father?" 

"Na,  na;  he'll  bide  wi'  the  McFarlanes. 
They  are  rich  folk;  but  siller  is  nae  sin — an'  it 
be  clean- won  siller." 

"Then  why  did  Uncle  McFarlane  write  to 
you,  father?" 

"He  wrote  concerning  the  lad's  pecuniary 
matters,  Christine.  Young  Donald  will  need 
gude  guiding;  and  he  is  my  sister  Jessie's  only 
bairn — blood  is  thicker  than  water,  ye '11  allow 
that — and  Donald  is  o'  gentle  blood.  I  'm  no  say- 
ing that's  everything;  but  it  is  gude  to  come  o' 
a  gude  kind. ' ' 

' '  The  McFarlanes  have  aye  been  for  the  pope 
and  the  Stuarts,"  said  James,  a  little  scornfully. 
' '  They  were  '  out '  in  the  '  79 ' ;  and  they  would 
pin  the  white  cockade  on  to-morrow,  if  there  was 
ever  a  Stuart  to  bid  them  do  it." 

"Maybe  they  would,  James.  Hielandmen 
hae  a  way  o'  sticking  to  auld  friends.  There 's 
Camerons  I  wadna  go  bail  for,  if  Prince  Char- 
lie could  come  again;  but  let  that  flea  stick  to 


T08  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

the  wa'.  And  the  McFarlanes  arena  exactly 
papist  noo;  the  twa  last  generations  hae  been 
'Piscopals — that's  ane  step  ony  way  towards  the 
truth.  Luther  mayna  be  John  Knox,  but  they  '11 
win  up  to  him  some  time,  dootless  they  will." 

"How  old  is  young  McFarlane?"  asked 
James. 

"He  is  turned  twenty — a  braw  lad,  his  father 
says.  I  hae  ne'er  seen  him,  but  he's  Jessie's 
bairn,  and  my  heart  gaes  out  to  meet  him." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  on  Saturday,  fa- 
ther? I  could  have  spoken  for  Maggie  Maclean 
to  help  me  put  the  house  in  order. ' ' 

"I  didna  get  the  letter  till  the  evening  post. 
It  was  most  as  good  as  Sabbath  then.  House- 
cleaning  is  an  unco  temptation  to  women-folk,  so 
I  keepit  the  news  till  the  Sabbath  sun  was  weel 
set." 

During  this  conversation  James  Blackie's  heart 
had  become  heavy  with  some  sad  presentiment  of 
trouble,  such  as  arise  very  naturally  in  similar 
circumstances.  As  a  poet  says, 

"  Ah,  no !  it  is  not  all  delusion, 

That  strange  intelligence  of  sorrow 
Searching  the  tranquil  heart's  seclusion, 

Making  us  quail  before  the  morrow. 
T  is  the  farewell  of  happiness  departing, 

The  sudden  tremor  of  a  soul  at  rest ; 
The  wraith  of  coming  grief  upstarting 

Within  the  watchful  breast." 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  IOQ 

He  listened  to  David  Cameron's  reminiscences 
of  his  bonnie  sister  Jessie,  and  of  the  love  match 
she  had  made  with  the  great  Highland  chieftain, 
with  an  ill-disguised  impatience.  He  had  a 
Lowlander's  scorn  for  the  thriftless,  fighting, 
freebooting  traditions  of  the  Northern  clans  and 
a  Calvinist's  dislike  to  the  Stuarts  and  the  Stuarts' 
faith;  so  that  David's  unusual  emotion  was  ex- 
ceedingly and,  perhaps,  unreasonably  irritating 
to  him.  He  could  not  bear  to  hear  him  speak 
with  trembling  voice  and  gleaming  eyes  of  the 
grand  mountains  and  the  silent  conies  around 
Ben-Nevis,  the  red  deer  trooping  over  the  misty 
steeps,  and  the  brown  hinds  lying  among  the 
green  plumes  of  fern,  and  the  wren  and  the  thrush 
lilting  in  song  together. 

"Oh,  the  bonnie,  bonnie  Hielands !"  cried 
David  with  a  passionate  affection;  "it  is  always 
Sabbath  up  i'  the  mountains,  Christine.  I  maun 
see  them  once  again  ere  I  lay  by  my  pilgrim- 
staff  and  shoon  for  ever. ' ' 

"Then  you  are  not  Glasgow  born,  Mr.  Cam- 
eron," said  James,  with  the  air  of  one  who  finds 
out  something  to  another's  disadvantage. 

"Me!  Glasgo'  born!  Na,  na,  man!  I  was 
born  among  the  mountains  o'  Argyle.  It  was  a 
sair  downcome  fra  them  to  the  Glasgo'  pavements. 
But  I  'm  saying  naething  against  Glasgo'.  I  was 


110  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

but  thinking  o'  the  days  when  I  wore  the  tartan 
and  climbed  the  hills  in  the  white  dawns,  and, 
kneeling  on  the  top  o'  Ben  Na  Keen,  saw  the  sun 
sink  down  wi'  a  smile.  It 's  little  ane  sees  o' 
sunrising  or  sunsetting  here,  James,"  and  David 
sighed  heavily  and  wiped  away  the  tender  mist 
from  his  sight. 

James  looked  at  the  old  man  with  some  con- 
tempt; he  himself  had  been  born  and  reared  in 
one  or  other  of  the  closest  and  darkest  streets  of 
the  city.  The  memories  of  his  loveless,  hard- 
worked  childhood  were  bitter  to  him,  and  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  joy  of  a  boyhood  spent  in 
the  hills  and  woods. 

* '  lyife  is  the  same  everywhere,  Mr.  Cameron. 
I  dare  say  there  is  as  much  sin  and  as  much  worry 
and  care  among  the  mountains  as  on  the  Glasgow 
pavements." 

"  You  may  'daur  say'  it,  James,  but  that 
winna  mak  it  true.  Even  in  this  warld  our  Fa- 
ther's house  has  many  mansions.  Gang  your  way 
up  and  up  through  thae  grand  solitudes  and  ye  '11 
blush  to  be  caught  worrying  among  them." 

And  then  in  a  clear,  jubilant  voice  he  broke 
into  the  old  Scotch  version  of  the  i2ist  Psalm: 

"  I  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes 

from  whence  doth  come  mine  aid ; 
My  safety  cometh  from  the  Lord, 
who  heaven  and  earth  hath  made." 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  Ill 

And  he  sang  it  to  that  loveliest  of  all  psalm 
tunes,  Rathiel's  "St.  Mary's."  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  resist  the  faith,  the  enthusiasm,  the  melody. 
At  the  second  bar  Christine's  clear,  sweet  voice 
joined  in,  and  at  the  second  line  James  was  ma- 
king a  happy  third. 

"  Henceforth  thy  goings  out  and  in 
God  keep  for  ever  will." 

"  Thae  twa  lines  will  do  for  a  '  Gude-night, '  " 
said  David  in  the  pause  at  the  end  of  the  psalm, 
and  James  rose  with  a  sigh  and  wrapped  his  plaid 
around  him. 


SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  II. 

JAMES  had  gone  into  the  house  so  happy  and 
hopeful,  he  left  it  so  anxious  and  angry — yes,  an- 
gry. He  knew  well  that  he  had  no  just  cause  for 
anger,  but  that  knowledge  only  irritated  him  the 
more.  Souls,  as  well  as  bodies,  are  subject  to 
malignant  diseases,  and  to-night  envy  and  jeal- 
ousy were  causing  James  Blackie  more  acute  suf- 
fering than  any  attack  of  fever  or  contagion.  A 
feeling  of  dislike  towards  young  Donald  McPar- 
lane  had  taken  possession  of  his  heart;  he  lay 
awake  to  make  a  mental  picture  of  the  youth, 
and  then  he  hated  the  picture  he  had  made. 

Feverish  and  miserable,  he  went  next  morning 
to  the  bank  in  which  he  was  employed,  and  en- 
deavored amid  the  perplexities  of  compound  in- 
terest to  forget  the  anxieties  he  had  invented  for 
himself.  But  it  was  beyond  his  power,  and  he 
did  not  pray  about  them;  for  the  burdens  we  bind 
on  our  own  shoulders  we  rarely  dare  to  go  to  God 
with,  and  James  might  have  known  from  this  cir- 
cumstance alone  that  his  trouble  was  no  lawful 
one.  He  nursed  it  carefully  all  day  and  took  it 
to  bed  with  him  again  at  night.  The  next  day 
he  had  begun  to  understand  how  envy  grew  to 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  113 

hatred,  and  hatred  to  murder.  Still  he  did  not  go 
to  God  for  help,  and  still  he  kept  ever  before  his 
eyes  the  image  of  the  youth  that  he  had  deter- 
mined was  to  be  his  enemy. 

On  Thursday  night  he  could  no  longer  bear 
his  uncertainties.  He  dressed  himself  carefully 
and  went  to  David  Cameron's.  David  was  in  his 
shop  tasting  and  buying  teas,  and  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  business.  He  merely  nodded  to  James, 
and  bid  him  "walk  through."  He  had  no  in- 
tention of  being  less  kindly  than  usual,  but  James 
was  in  such  a  suspicious  temper  that  he  took  his 
preoccupation  for  coolness,  and  so  it  was  almost 
with  a  resentful  feeling  he  opened  the  half-glass 
door  dividing  the  shop  from  the  parlor. 

As  his  heart  had  foretold  him,  there  sat  the 
youth  whom  he  had  determined  to  hate,  but  his 
imagination  had  greatly  deceived  him  with  re- 
gard to  his  appearance.  He  had  thought  of  Don- 
ald only  as  a  "fair,  false  Highlander"  in  tartan, 
kilt,  and  philibeg.  He  found  him  a  tall,  dark 
youth,  richly  dressed  in  the  prevailing  Southern 
fashion,  and  retaining  no  badge  of  his  country's 
costume  but  the  little  Glengary  cap  with  its  chief- 
tain's token  of  an  eagle's  feather.  His  manners 
were  not  rude  and  haughty,  as  James  had  decided 
they  would  be ;  they  were  singularly  frank  and 
pleasant.  Gracious  and  graceful,  exceedingly 
15 


114  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

handsome  and  light-hearted,  he  was  likely  to 
prove  a  far  more  dangerous  rival  than  even 
James'  jealous  heart  had  anticipated. 

He  rose  at  Christine's  introduction,  and  offered 
his  hand  with  a  pleasant  smile  to  James.  The 
latter  received  the  courtesy  with  such  marked 
aversion  that  Donald  slightly  raised  his  eyebrows 
ere  he  resumed  his  interrupted  conversation  with 
Christine.  And  now  that  James  sat  down  with  a 
determination  to  look  for  offences  he  found  plen- 
ty. Christine  was  sewing,  and  Donald  sat  beside 
her  winding  and  unwinding  her  threads,  playing 
with  her  housewife,  or  teasingly  hiding  her  scis- 
sors. Christine,  half  pleased  and  half  annoyed, 
gradually  fell  into  Donald's  mood,  and  her  still 
face  dimpled  into  smiles.  James  very  quickly 
decided  that  Donald  presumed  in  a  very  offen- 
sive manner  on  his  relationship  to  Christine. 

A  little  after  nine  o'clock  David,  having 
closed  his  shop,  joined  them  in  the  parlor.  He 
immediately  began  to  question  James  about  the 
loss  of  the  "  Bonnie  Bess,"  and  from  that  subject 
they  drifted  easily  into  others  of  a  local  business 
interest.  It  was  very  natural  that  Donald,  being 
a  stranger  both  to  the  city  and  its  business,  should 
take  no  part  in  this  discourse,  and  that  he  should, 
in  consequence,  devote  himself  to  Christine.  But 
James  felt  it  an  offence,  and  rose  much  earlier 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S    REVENGE. 

than  was  his  wont  to  depart.  David  stayed  him, 
almost  authoritatively: 

u  Ye  maun  stop,  baith  o'  ye  lads,  and  join  in 
my  meat  and  worship.  They  are  ill  visitors  that 
canna  sit  at  ane  board  and  kneel  at  ane  altar." 

For  David  had  seen,  through  all  their  drifting 
talk  of  ships  and  cargoes,  the  tumult  in  James' 
heart,  and  he  did  not  wish  him  to  go  away  in  an 
ungenerous  and  unjust  temper.  So  both  Donald 
and  James  partook  of  the  homely  supper  of  pease 
brose  and  butter,  oatmeal  cakes  and  fresh  milk, 
and  then  read  aloud  with  David  and  Christine  the 
verses  of  the  evening  Psalm  that  came  to  each  in 
turn.  James  was  much  softened  by  the  exercise; 
so  much  so  that  when  Donald  asked  permission 
to  walk  with  him  as  far  as  their  way  lay  together, 
he  very  pleasantly  acceded  to  the  request.  And 
Donald  was  so  bright  and  unpretentious  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  -resist  the  infectious  good 
temper  which  seemed  to  be  his  characteristic. 

Still  James  was  very  little  happier  or  more 
restful.  He  lay  awake  again,  but  this  night  it 
was  not  to  fret  and  fume,  but  to  calmly  think 
over  his  position  and  determine  what  was  best 
and  right  to  do.  For  James  still  thought  of 
"right,"  and  would  have  been  shocked  indeed  if 
any  angel  of  conscience  had  revealed  to  him  the 
lowest  depths  of  his  desires  and  intentions.  In 


Il6  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

the  first  place,  he  saw  that  David  would  tolerate 
no  element  of  quarrelling  and  bitterness  in  his 
peaceful  home,  and  that  if  he  would  continue  to 
visit  there  he  must  preserve  the  semblance  of 
friendship  for  Donald  McFarlane.  In  the  second, 
he  saw  that  Donald  had  already  made  so  good  his 
lien  upon  his  uncle's  and  cousin's  affections  that 
it  would  be  very  hard  to  make  them  believe 
wrong  of  the  lad,  even  if  he  should  do  wrong, 
though  of  this  James  told  himself  there  would 
soon  be  abundance. 

"For  the  things  David  will  think  sinful  be- 
yond all  measure,"  he  argued,  "will  seem  but 
Puritanical  severity  to  him;  forbye,  he  is  rich,  gay, 
handsome,  and  has  little  to  do  with  his  time,  he'll 
get  well  on  to  Satan's  ground  before  he  knows 
it;"  and  then  some  whisper  dim  and  low  in  his 
soul  made  him  blush  and  pause  and  defer  the  fol- 
lowing out  of  a  course  which  was  to  begin  in  such 
a  way. 

So  Donald  and  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  meet- 
ing at  David's  two  or  three  nights  every  week, 
and  an  apparent  friendship  sprang  up  between 
them.  It  was  only  apparent,  however.  On  Don- 
ald's side  was  that  good-natured  indifference  that 
finds  it  easy  enough  to  say  smooth  words,  and  is 
not  ready  to  think  evil  or  to  take  offence;  on 
James'  part  a  wary  watchfulness,  assuming  the 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE.  117 

role  of  superior  wisdom,  half  admiring  and  half 
condemning  Donald's  youthful  spirits  and  ways. 

David  was  quite  deceived;  he  dropped  at  once 
the  authoritative  manner  which  had  marked  his 
displeasure  when  he  perceived  James'  disposition 
to  envy  and  anger;  he  fell  again  into  his  usual 
pleasant  familiar  talks  with  the  young  man,  for 
David  thought  highly  of  James  as  of  one  likely  to 
do  his  duty  to  God  and  himself. 

In  these  conversations  Donald  soon  began  to 
take  a  little  share,  and  when  he  chose  to  do  so, 
evinced  a  thought  and  shrewdness  which  greatly 
pleased  his  uncle ;  more  generally,  however,  he 
was  at  Christine's  side,  reading  her  some  poem 
he  had  copied,  or  telling  her  about  some  grand 
party  he  had  been  at.  Sometimes  James  could 
catch  a  few  words  of  reproof  addressed  in  a  gentle 
voice  to  Donald  by  Christine;  more  often  he  heard 
only  the  murmur  of  an  earnest  conversation,  or 
Christine's  low  laugh  at  some  amusing  incident. 

The  little  room  meanwhile  had  gradually  be- 
come a  far  brighter  place.  Donald  kept  it  sweet 
and  bright  with  his  daily  offerings  of  fresh  flow- 
ers; the  pet  canary  he  had  given  Christine  twit- 
tered and  sang  to  her  all  the  day  through.  Over 
Christine  herself  had  come  the  same  bright  change; 
her  still,  calm  face  often  dimpled  into  smiles,  her 
pale-gold  hair  was  snooded  with  a  pretty  ribbon, 


Il8  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

and  her  dress  a  little  richer.  Yet,  after  all,  the 
change  was  so  slight  that  none  but  a  lover  would 
have  noticed  it.  But  there  was  not  a  smile  or  a 
shade  of  brighter  color  that  James  did  not  see ; 
and  he  bore  it  with  an  equanimity  which  used 
often  to  astonish  himself,  though  it  would  not 
have  done  so  if  he  had  dared  just  once  to  look 
down  into  his  heart;  he  bore  it  because  he  knew 
that  Donald  was  living  two  lives — one  that  Chris- 
tine saw,  and  one  that  she  could  not  even  have 
imagined. 

It  was,  alas,  too  true  that  this  gay,  good-na- 
tured young  man,  who  had  entered  the  fashiona- 
ble world  without  one  bad  habit,  was  fast  becom- 
ing proficient  in  all  its  follies  and  vices.  That 
kind  of  negative  goodness  which  belonged  natu- 
rally to  him,  unfortified  by  strict  habits  and  strong 
principles,  had  not  been  able  to  repel  the  seduc- 
tions and  temptations  that  assail  young  men,  rich, 
handsome,  and  well-born.  There  was  an  evil  tri- 
umph in  James'  heart  one  night  when  Donald  said 
to  him,  as  they  walked  home  after  an  evening  at 
David's, 

"  Mr.  Blackie,  I  wish  you  could  lend  me  £20. 
I  am  in  a  little  trouble,  and  I  cannot  ask  Uncle 
David  for  more,  as  I  have  already  overdrawn  my 
father' s  allowance. ' ' 

James   loaned   it  with  an  eager  willingness, 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S    REVENGE. 

though  he  was  usually  very  cautious  and  careful 
of  every  bawbee  of  his  hard-earned  money.  He 
knew  it  was  but  the  beginning  of  confidence,  and 
so  it  proved;  in  a  very  little  while  Donald  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  going  to  James  in  every 
emergency,  and  of  making  him  the  confidant  of 
all  his  youthful  hopes  and  follies. 

James  even  schooled  himself  to  listen  patiently 
to  Donald's  praises  of  his  cousin  Christine.  "She 
is  just  the  wife  I  shall  need  when  I  settle  down  in 
three  or  four  years,"  Donald  would  say  compla- 
cently, ' '  and  I  think  she  loves  me.  Of  course  no 
man  is  worthy  of  such  a  woman,  but  when  I  have 
seen  life  a  little  I  mean  to  try  and  be  so." 

"  Umph  !"  answered  James  scornfully,  "do 
you  suppose,  Mr.  McFarlane,  that  ye '11  be  fit  for 
a  pure  lassie  like  Christine  Cameron  when  you 
have  played  the  prodigal  and  consorted  with  fool- 
ish women,  and  wasted  your  substance  in  riotous 
living?" 

And  Donald  said  with  an  honest  blush,  "By 
the  memory  of  my  mother,  no,  I  do  not,  James. 
And  I  am  ashamed  when  I  think  of  Christine's 
white  soul  and  the  stained  love  I  have  to  offer  it. 
But  women  forgive  !  Oh,  what  mothers  and  wives 
and  sisters  there  are  in  this  world  !" 

"Well,  don't  try  Christine  too  far,  Donald. 
She  is  of  an  old  Covenanting  stock;  her  conscience 


I2O  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

feels  sin  afar  off.  I  do  not  believe  she  would  mar- 
ry a  bad,  worldly  man,  though  it  broke  her  heart 
to  say  '  No. '  I  have  known  her  far  longer  than 
you  have. ' ' 

"  Tut,  man,  I  love  her  !  I  know  her  better  in 
an  hour  than  you  could  do  in  a  lifetime;''  and 
Donald  looked  rather  contemptuously  on  the  plain 
man  who  was  watching  him  with  eyes  that  might 
have  warned  any  one  more  suspicious  or  less  con- 
fident and  self-satisfied. 


JAMBS   BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  121 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  summer  brought  some  changes.  Chris- 
tine went  to  the  seaside  for  a  few  weeks,  and 
Donald  went  away  in  Lord  Neville's  yacht  with 
a  party  of  gay  young  men;  James  and  David 
passed  the  evenings  generally  together.  If  it  was 
wet,  they  remained  in  the  shop  or  parlor;  if  fine, 
they  rambled  to  the  "Green,"  and  sitting  down 
by  the  riverside  talked  of  business,  of  Christine, 
and  of  Donald.  In  one  of  these  confidential  ram- 
bles James  first  tried  to  arouse  in  David's  mind  a 
suspicion  as  to  his  nephew's  real  character.  Da- 
vid himself  introduced  the  subject  by  speaking  of 
a  letter  he  had  received  from  Donald. 

"He 's  wi'  the  great  Earl  o'  Egremont  at  pres- 
ent," said  David  proudly,  for  he  had  all  a  Scots- 
man's respect  for  good  birth;  "and  there  is  wi' 
them  young  Argyle,  and  Lord  Lovat,  and  ithers 
o'  the  same  quality.  But  our  Donald  can  cock 
his  bonnet  wi'  ony  o'  them;  there  is  na  better 
blood  in  Scotland  than  the  McFarlanes'.  It  taks 
money  though  to  foregather  wi'  nobeelity,  and 
Donald  is  wanting  some.  So,  James,  I'll  gie  ye 
the  siller  to-night,  and  ye  '11  send  it  through  your 

bank  as  early  as  may  be  in  the  morn." 
16 


122  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

' '  Donald  wanting  money  is  an  old  want,  Mr. 
Cameron. ' ' 

David  glanced  quickly  at  James,  and  answered 
almost  haughtily,  "  It's  a  common  want  likewise, 
James  Blackie.  But  if  Donald  McFarlane  wants 
money,  he's  got  kin  that  can  accommodate  him, 
James;  wanters  arena  always  that  fortunate." 

"•He  has  got  friends  likewise,  Mr.  Cameron; 
and  I  am  sure  I  was  proud  enough  to  do  him  a 
kindness,  and  he  knows  it  well." 

"And  how  much  may  Donald  be  owing  you, 
I  wonder?" 

' '  Only  a  little  matter  of  £20.  You  see  he  had 
got  into — " 

' '  Dinna  fash  yoursel'  wi'  explanations,  James. 
Dootless  Donald  has  his  faults;  but  I  may  weel 
wink  at  his  small  faults,  when  I  hae  sae  mony 
great  faults  o'  my  ain." 

And  David's  personal  accusation  sounded  so 
much  like  a  reproof,  that  James  did  not  feel  it 
safe  to  pursue  the  subject. 

That  very  night  David  wrote  thus  to  his 
nephew: 

' '  Donald,  my  dear  lad,  if  thou  owest  James 
Blackie  £20,  pay  it  immediate.  Lying  is  the 
second  vice,  owing  money  is  the  first.  I  enclose 
draft  for  £JQ  instead  o'  ^50,  as  per  request." 

That  ^70  was  a  large  sum  in  the  eyes  of  the 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  123 

careful  Glasgow  trader;  in  the  young  Highland- 
er's eyes  it  seemed  but  a  small  sum.  He  could 
not  form  any  conception  of  the  amount  of  love  it 
represented,  nor  of  the  struggle  it  had  cost  David 
to  "gie  awa  for  nae  consideration"  the  savings 
of  many  days,  perhaps  weeks,  of  toil  and  thought. 

In  September  Christine  came  back,  and  to- 
wards the  end  of  October,  Donald.  He  was 
greatly  improved  externally  by  his  trip  and  his 
associations — more  manly  and  more  handsome — 
while  his  manners  had  acquired  a  slight  touch  of 
hauteur  that  both  amused  and  pleased  his  uncle. 
It  had  been  decided  that  he  should  remain  in 
Glasgow  another  winter,  and  then  select  his 
future  profession.  But  at  present  Donald  trou- 
bled himself  little  about  the  future.  He  had 
returned  to  Christine  more  in  love  with  the  peace 
and  purity  of  her  character  than  ever;  and  be- 
sides, his  pecuniary  embarrassments  in  Glasgow 
were  such  as  to  require  his  personal  presence 
until  they  were  arranged. 

This  arrangement  greatly  troubled  him.  He 
had  only  a  certain  allowance  from  his  father — a 
loving  but  stern  man — who  having  once  decided 
what  sum  was  sufficient  for  a  young  man  in  Don- 
ald's position,  would  not,  under  any  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, increase  it.  David  Cameron  had 
already  advanced  him  ^70.  James  Blackie  was 


124  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

a  resource  he  did  not  care  again  to  apply  to.  In 
the  meantime  he  was  pressed  by  small  debts  on 
every  hand,  and  was  living  among  a  class  of 
young  men  whose  habits  led  him  into  expenses 
far  beyond  his  modest  income.  He  began  to  be 
very  anxious  and  miserable.  In  Christine's  pres- 
ence he  was  indeed  still  the  same  merry-hearted 
gentleman;  but  James  saw  him  in  other  places, 
and  he  knew  from  long  experience  the  look  of 
care  that  drew  Donald's  handsome  brows  to- 
gether. 

One  night,  towards  the  close  of  this  winter, 
James  went  to  see  an  old  man  who  was  a  broker 
or  trader  in  bills  and  money,  doing  business  in 
the  Cowcaddens.  James  also  did  a  little  of  the 
same  business  in  a  cautious  way,  and  it  was  some 
mutual  transaction  in  gold  and  silver  that  took 
him  that  dreary,  soaking  night  into  such  a  lo- 
cality. 

The  two  men  talked  for  some  time  in  a  low 
and  earnest  voice,  and  then  the  old  man,  opening 
a  greasy  leather  satchel,  displayed  a  quantity  of 
paper  which  he  had  bought.  James  looked  it 
over  with  a  keen  and  practised  eye.  Suddenly 
his  attitude  and  expression  changed;  he  read  over 
and  over  one  piece  of  paper,  and  every  time  he 
read  it  he  looked  at  it  more  critically  and  with  a 
greater  satisfaction. 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S    REVENGE.  125 

"Andrew  Starkie,"  he  said,  "where  did  you 
buy  this?" 

"  Weel,  James,  I  bought  it  o'  Laidlaw — Aleck 
Laidlaw.  Ye  wadna  think  a  big  tailoring  place 
like  that  could  hae  the  wind  in  their  faces;  but 
folks  maun  hae  their  bad  weather  days,  ye  ken; 
but  it  blew  me  gude,  so  I  '11  ne'er  complain.  Ye 
see  it  is  for  ^89,  due  in  twenty  days  now,  and  I 
only  gied  ^79  for  it — a  good  name  too,  nane 
better." 

"David  Cameron!  But  what  would  he  be 
owing  Laidlaw  ^89  for  clothes  for?" 

' '  Tut,  tut !  The  claithes  were  for  his  neph- 
ew. There  was  some  trouble  anent  the  bill, 
but  the  old  man  gied  a  note  for  the  amount  at 
last,  at  three  months.  It's  due  in  twenty  days 
now.  As  he  banks  wi'  your  firm,  ye  may  col- 
lect it  for  me;  it  will  be  an  easy-made  penny  or 
twa." 

' '  I  would  like  to  buy  this  note.  What  will 
you  sell  it  for?" 

"I'm  no  minded  to  sell  it.  What  for  do  ye 
want  it?" 

"Nothing  particular.  I'll  give  you  ^90  for 
it." 

"If  it's  worth  that  to  you,  it  is  worth  mair. 
I'm  no  minded  to  tak  ^90." 

"I'll  give  you 


126  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"I'm  no  minded  to  tak  it.  It's  worth  mair 
to  you,  I  see  that.  What  are  you  going  to  mak 
by  it?  I  '11  sell  it  for  half  o'  what  you  are  count- 
ing on. ' ' 

' '  Then  you  would  not  make  a  bawbee.  I  am 
going  to  ware  ^95  on — on  a  bit  of  revenge.  Now 
will  you  go  shares  ?' ' 

"Not  I.  Revenge  in  cold  blood  is  the  deil's 
own  act.  I  dinna  wark  wi'  the  deil,  when  it's 
a  losing  job  to  me." 

"Will  you  take  ^95  then  ?" 

"No.  When  lads  want  whistles  they  maun 
pay  for  them." 

"I'll  give  no  more.  For  why?  Because  in 
twenty  days  you  will  do  my  work  for  me;  then  it 
will  cost  me  nothing,  and  it  will  cost  you  ^89, 
that  is  all  about  it,  Starkie." 

Starkie  lifted  the  note  which  James  had  flung 
carelessly  down,  and  his  skinny  hands  trembled 
as  he  fingered  it.  "This  is  David  Cameron's 
note  o'  hand,  and  David  Cameron  is  a  gude 
name." 

' '  Yes,  very  good.  Only  that  is  not  David 
Cameron's  writing,  it  is  a — forgery.  Light  your 
pipe  with  it,  Andrew  Starkie." 

4 '  His  nephew  gave  it  himsel'  to  Aleck  Laid- 
law— " 

"I  know.     And  I  hate  his  nephew.     He  has 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S    REVENGE. 

come  between  me  and  Christine  Cameron.  Do 
you  see  now?" 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  I  see,  I  see!  Well,  James, 
you  can  have  it  for  ^100 — as  a  favor." 

"I  don't  want  it  now.  He  could  not  have  a 
harder  man  to  deal  with  than  you  are.  You  suit 
me  very  well." 

"James,  such  business  wont  suit  me.  I  can't 
afford  to  be  brought  into  notice.  I  would  rather 
lose  double  the  money  than  prosecute  any  gentle- 
man in  trouble." 

The  older  man  had  reasoned  right — James 
dared  not  risk  the  note  out  of  sight,  dared  not 
trust  to  Starkie's  prosecution.  He  longed  to 
have  the  bit  of  paper  in  his  own  keeping,  and 
after  a  wary  battle  of  a  full  hour's  length  Andrew 
Starkie  had  his  ^89  back  again,  and  James  had 
the  note  in  his  pocket-book. 

Through  the  fog,  and  through  the  wind,  and 
through  the  rain  he  went,  and  he  knew  nothing, 
and  he  felt  nothing  but  that  little  bit  of  paper 
against  his  breast.  Oh,  how  greedily  he  remem- 
bered Donald's  handsome  looks  and  stately  ways, 
and  all  the  thousand  little  words  and  acts  by 
which  he  imagined  himself  wronged  and  insulted. 
Now  he  had  his  enemy  beneath  his  feet,  and  for 
several  days  this  thought  satisfied  him,  and  he 
hid  his  secret  morsel  of  vengeance  and  found  it 


128  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

sweet — sharply,  bitterly  sweet — for  even  yet  con- 
science pleaded  hard  with  him. 

As  he  sat  counting  his  columns  of  figures, 
every  gentle,  forgiving  word,  of  Christ  came  into 
his  heart.  He  knew  well  that  Donald  would 
receive  his  quarterly  allowance  before  the  bill 
was  due,  and  that  he  must  have  relied  on  this  to 
meet  it.  He  also  knew  enough  of  Donald's 
affairs  to  guess  something  of  the  emergency  that 
he  must  have  been  in  ere  he  would  have  yielded 
to  so  dangerous  an  alternative.  There  were  times 
when  he  determined  to  send  for  Donald,  show 
him  the  frightful  danger  in  which  he  stood,  and 
then  tear  the  note  before  his  eyes,  and  leave  its 
payment  to  his  honor.  He  even  realized  the 
peace  which  would  flow  from  such  a  deed.  Nor 
were  these  feelings  transitory,  his  better  nature 
pleaded  so  hard  with  him  that  he  walked  his 
room  hour  after  hour  under  their  influence,  and 
their  power  over  him  was  such  as  delayed  all  ac- 
tion in  the  matter  for  nearly  a  week. 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE.  129 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AT  length  one  morning  David  Cameron  came 
into  the  bank,  and  having  finished  his  business, 
walked  up  to  James  and  said,  "  I  feared  ye  were 
ill,  James.  Whatna  for  hae  ye  stayed  awa  sae 
lang?  I  wanted  ye  sairly  last  night  to  go  o'er 
wi'  me  the  points  in  this  debate  at  our  kirk.  We 
are  to  hae  anither  session  to-night;  ye '11  come 
the  morn  and  talk  it  o'er  wi'  me?" 

"I  will,  Mr.  Cameron." 

But  James  instantly  determined  to  see  Chris- 
tine that  night.  Her  father  would  be  at  the  kirk 
session,  and  if  Donald  was  there,  he  thought  he 
knew  how  to  whisper  him  away.  He  meant  to 
have  Christine  all  to  himself  for  an  hour  or  two, 
and  if  he  saw  any  opportunity  he  would  tell  her 
all.  When  he  got  to  David's  the  store  was  still 
open,  but  the  clerk  said,  "  David  has  just  gone," 
and  James,  as  was  his  wont,  walked  straight  to 
the  parlor. 

Donald  was  there;  he  had  guessed  that,  be- 
cause a  carriage  was  in  waiting,  and  he  knew  it 
could  belong  to  no  other  caller  at  David  Cam- 
eron's. And  never  had  Donald  roused  in  him 
such  an  intense  antagonism.  He  was  going  to 


130  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

some  National  Celebration,  and  he  stood  beside 
Christine  in  all  the  splendid  picturesque  pomp  of 
the  McFarlane  tartans.  He  was  holding  Chris- 
tine's hand,  and  she  stood  as  a  white  lily  in  the 
glow  and  color  of  his  dark  beauty.  Perhaps  both 
of  them  felt  James'  entrance  inopportune.  At 
any  rate  they  received  him  coldly,  Donald  drew 
Christine  a  little  apart,  said  a  few  whispered 
words  to  her,  and  lifting  his  bonnet  slightly  to 
James,  he  went  away. 

In  the  few  minutes  of  this  unfortunate  meet- 
ing the  devil  entered  into  James'  heart.  Even 
Christine  was  struck  with  the  new  look  on  his 
face.  It  was  haughty,  malicious,  and  trium- 
phant, and  he  leaned  against  the  high  oaken 
chimney-piece  in  a  defiant  way  that  annoyed 
Christine,  though  she  could  not  analyze  it. 

"Sit  down,  James,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of 
authority — for  his  attitude  had  unconsciously  put 
her  on  the  defensive.  ' '  Donald  has  gone  to  the 
Caledonian  club;  there  is  to  be  a  grand  gathering 
of  Highland  gentlemen  there  to-night." 

' '  Gentlemen  /' ' 

"Well,  yes,  gentlemen!  And  there  will  be 
none  there  more  worthy  the  name  than  our  Don- 
ald." 

"The  rest  of  them  are  much  to  be  scorned  at, 
then." 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S    REVENGE.  131 

"James,  James,  that  speech  was  little  like 
you.  Sit  down  and  come  to  yourself;  I  am  sure 
you  are  not  so  mean  as  to  grudge  Donald  the 
rights  of  his  good  birth. ' ' 

' '  Donald  McFarlane  shall  have  all  the  rights 
he  has  worked  for;  and  when  he  gets  his  just 
payment  he  will  be  in  Glasgow  jail." 

"James,  you  are  ill.  You  have  not  been 
here  for  a  week,  and  you  look  so  unlike  your- 
self. I  know  you  must  be  ill.  Will  you  let  me 
send  for  our  doctor  ?' '  And  she  approached  him 
kindly,  and  looked  with  anxious  scrutiny  into  his 
face. 

He  put  her  gently  away,  and  said  in  a  thick, 
rapid  voice, 

"Christine,  I  came  to-night  to  tell  you  that 
Donald  McFarlane  is  unworthy  to  come  into  your 
presence — he  has  forged  your  father's  name." 

"James,  you  are  mad,  or  ill,  what  you  say  is 
just  impossible!" 

' ( I  am  neither  mad  nor  ill.  I  will  prove  it,  if 
you  wish." 

At  these  words  every  trace  of  sympathy  or 
feeling  vanished  from  her  face;  and  she  said  in  a 
low,  hoarse  whisper, 

"You  cannot  prove  it.  I  would  not  believe 
such  a  thing  possible." 

Then   with   a   pitiless  particularity  he  went 


132  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

over  all  the  events  relating  to  the  note,  and  held 
it  out  for  her  to  examine  the  signature. 

"Is  that  David  Cameron's  writing?"  he  cried; 
udid  you  ever  see  such  a  weak  imitation?  The 
man  is  a  fool  as  well  as  a  villain." 

Christine  gazed  blankly  at  the  witness  of  her 
cousin's  guilt,  and  James,  carried  away  with  the 
wicked  impetuosity  of  his  passionate  accusations 
of  Donald's  life,  did  not  see  the  fair  face  set  in 
white  despair  and  the  eyes  close  wearily,  as  with 
a  piteous  cry  she  fell  prostrate  at  his  feet. 

Ah,  how  short  was  his  triumph !  When  he 
saw  the  ruin  that  his  words  had  made  he  shrieked 
aloud  in  his  terror  and  agony.  Help  was  at  hand, 
and  doctors  were  quickly  brought,  but  she  had  re- 
ceived a  shock  from  which  it  seemed  impossible 
to  revive  her.  David  was  brought  home,  and 
knelt  in  speechless  distress  by  the  side  of  his  in- 
sensible child,  but  no  hope  lightened  the  long, 
terrible  night,  and  when  the  reaction  came  in  the 
morning,  it  came  in  the  form  of  fever  and  delirium. 

Questioned  closely  by  David,  James  admitted 
nothing  but  that  while  talking  to  him  about  Don- 
ald McFarlane  she  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  and  Don- 
ald could  only  say  that  he  had  that  evening  told 
her  he  was  going  to  Edinburgh  in  two  weeks,  to 
study  law  with  his  cousin,  and  that  he  had  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife. 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  133 

This  acknowledgement  bound  David  and  Don- 
ald in  a  closer  communion  of  sorrow.  James  and 
his  sufferings  were  scarcely  noticed.  Yet,  proba- 
bly, of  all  that  unhappy  company,  he  suffered  the 
most.  He  loved  Christine  with  a  far  deeper  affec- 
tion than  Donald  had  ever  dreamed  of.  He  would 
have  given  his  life  for  hers,  and  yet  he  had,  per- 
haps, been  her  murderer.  How  he  hated  Donald 
in  those  days!  What  love  and  remorse  tortured 
him!  And  what  availed  it  that  he  had  bought 
the  power  to  ruin  the  man  he  hated?  He  was 
afraid  to  use  it.  If  Christine  lived,  and  he  did 
use  it,  she  would  never  forgive  him ;  if  she  died, 
he  would  be  her  murderer. 

But  the  business  of  life  cannot  be  delayed  for 
its  sorrows.  David  must  wait  in  his  shop,  and 
James  must  be  at  the  bank ;  and  in  two  weeks 
Donald  had  to  leave  for  Edinburgh,  though 
Christine  was  lying  in  a  silent,  broken-hearted 
apathy,  so  close  to  the  very  shoal  of  Time  that 
none  dared  say,  u  She  will  live  another  day." 

How  James  despised  Donald  for  leaving  her 
at  all;  he  desired  nothing  beyond  the  permission 
to  sit  by  her  side,  and  watch  and  aid  the  slow 
struggle  of  life  back  from  the  shores  and  shades 
of  death. 

It  was  almost  the  end  of  summer  before  she 
was  able  to  resume  her  place  in  the  household, 


134  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

but  long  before  that  she  had  asked  to  see  James. 
The  interview  took  place  one  Sabbath  afternoon 
while  David  was  at  church.  Christine  had  been 
lifted  to  a  couch,  but  she  was  unable  to  move, 
and  even  speech  was  exhausting  and  difficult  to 
her.  James  knelt  down  by  her  side,  and,  weep- 
ing bitterly,  said, 

"O  Christine,  forgive  me!" 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"  You  — have — not — used — yonder — paper, — 
James?1' 

"Oh,  no,  no." 

u  It — would — kill — me.  You — would — not — 
kill— me?" 

"  I  would  die  to  make  you  strong  again." 

"  Do  n'  t  —  hurt  —  Donald.  Forgive  —  for  — 
Christ' s — sake,  — James !' ' 

Poor  James!  It  was  hard  for  him  to  see  that 
still  Donald  was  her  first  thought,  and,  looking 
on  the  wreck  of  Christine's  youth  and  beauty,  it 
was  still  harder  not  to  hate  him  worse  than 
ever. 

Nor  did  the  temptation  to  do  so  grow  less  with 
time.  He  had  to  listen  every  evening  to  David's 
praises  of  his  nephew:  how  "he  had  been  entered 
wi'  Advocate  Scott,  and  was  going  to  be  a  grand 
lawyer,"  or  how  he  had  been  to  some  great  man's 
house  and  won  all  hearts  with  his  handsome  face 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S    REVENGE.  135 

and  witty  tongue.  Or,  perhaps,  he  would  be 
shown  some  rich  token  of  his  love  that  had  come 
for  Christine;  or  David  would  say,  "There's  the 
'  Edinbro'  News, '  James ;  it  cam  fra  Donald  this 
morn;  tak  it  hame  wi'  you.  You're  welcome." 
And  James  feared  not  to  take  it,  feared  to  show 
the  slightest  dislike  to  Donald,  lest  David's  anger 
at  it  should  provoke  him  to  say  what  was  in  his 
heart,  and  Christine  only  be  the  sufferer. 

One  cold  night  in  early  winter,  James,  as  was 
his  wont  now,  went  to  spend  the  evening  in  talk- 
ing with  David  and  in  watching  Christine.  That 
was  really  all  it  was;  for,  though  she  had  resumed 
her  house  duties,  she  took  little  part  in  conversa- 
tion. She  had  always  been  inclined  to  silence, 
but  now  a  faint  smile  and  a  "Yes"  or  "No" 
were  her  usual  response,  even  to  her  father's  re- 
marks. This  night  he  found  David  out,  and  he 
hesitated  whether  to  trouble  Christine  or  not. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  open  door  and 
looked  at  her.  She  was  sitting  by  the  table  with 
a  little  Testament  open  in  her  hand;  but  she  was 
rather  musing  on  what  she  had  been  reading  than 
continuing  her  occupation. 

"Christine!" 

"James!" 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"Yes,  surely." 


136  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

' '  I  hear  your  father  has  gone  to  a  town-meet- 
ing." 

"Yes." 

"And  he  is  to  be  made  a  bailie." 

"Yes." 

"  I  am  very  glad.  It  will  greatly  please  him, 
and  there  is  no  citizen  more  worthy  of  the  honor." 

"I  think  so  also." 

"Shall  I  disturb  you  if  I  wait  to  see  him?" 

4 '  No,  James ;  sit  down. ' ' 

Then  Christine  laid  aside  her  book  and  took 
her  sewing,  and  James  sat  thinking  how  he  could 
best  introduce  the  subject  ever  near  his  heart.  He 
felt  that  there  was  much  to  say  in  his  own  behalf, 
if  he  only  knew  how  to  begin.  Christine  opened 
the  subject  for  him.  She  laid  down  her  work  and 
went  and  stood  before  the  fire  at  his  side.  The 
faintest  shadow  of  color  was  in  her  face,  and  her 
eyes  were  unspeakably  sad  and  anxious.  He 
could  not  bear  their  eager,  searching  gaze,  and 
dropped  his  own. 

"James,  have  you  destroyed  yonder  paper?" 

' '  Nay,  Christine ;  I  am  too  poor  a  man  to 
throw  away  so  much  hard-won  gold.  I  am  keep- 
ing it  until  I  can  see  Mr.  McFarlane  and  quietly 
collect  my  own." 

"You  wrill  never  use  it  in  anyway  against 
him?" 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  137 

"Will  you  ever  marry  him  ?     Tell  me  that." 

"  O  sir  !"  she  cried  indignantly,  "  you  want  to 
make  a  bargain  with  my  poor  heart.  Hear,  then. 
If  Donald  wants  me  to  marry  him  I  '11  never  cast 
him  off.  Do  you  think  God  will  cast  him  off  for 
one  fault  ?  You  dare  not  say  it. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  say  but  what  God  will  pardon.  But 
we  are  human  beings ;  we  are  not  near  to  God 
yet." 

"  But  we  ought  to  be  trying  to  get  near  him; 
and  oh,  James,  you  never  had  so  grand  a  chance. 
See  the  pitiful  face  of  Christ  looking  down  on  you 
from  the  cross.  If  that  face  should  turn  away 
from  you,  James — if  it  should  !' ' 

' '  You  ask  a  hard  thing  of  me,  Christine. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  But  if  you  will  only  try  and  love  me — " 

"Stop,  James  !  I  will  make  no  bargain  in  a 
matter  of  right  and  wrong.  If  for  Christ's  sake, 
who  has  forgiven  you  so  much,  you  can  forgive 
Donald,  for  Christ's  dear  sake  do  it.  If  not,  I 
will  set  no  earthly  love  before  it.  Do  your  worst. 
God  can  find  out  a  way.  I  '11  trust  him." 

"Christine  !  dear  Christine  !" 

"  Hush  !  I  am  Donald's  promised  wife.  May 
God  speak  to  you  for  me.  I  am  very  sad  and 
weary.  Good-night." 

James  did  not  wait  for  David's  return.     He 
18 


I3  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

went  back  to  his  own  lodging,  and,  taking  the 
note  out  of  his  pocket-book,  spread  it  before  him. 
His  first  thought  was  that  he  had  wared  ^89  on 
his  enemy's  fine  clothes,  and  James  loved  gold 
and  hated  foppish,  extravagant  dress ;  his  next 
that  he  had  saved  Andrew  Starkie  ^89,  and  he 
knew  the  old  usurer  was  quietly  laughing  at  his 
folly.  But  worse  than  all  was  the  alternative  he 
saw  as  the  result  of  his  sinful  purchase:  if  he  used 
it  to  gratify  his  personal  hatred,  he  deeply  wound- 
ed, perhaps  killed,  his  dearest  love  and  his  oldest 
friend.  Hour  after  hour  he  sat  with  the  note  be- 
fore him.  His  good  angel  stood  at  his  side  and 
wooed  him  to  mercy.  There  was  a  fire  burning  in 
the  grate,  and  twice  he  held  the  paper  over  it,  and 
twice  turned  away  from  his  better  self. 

The  watchman  was  calling  "half -past  two 
o'clock,"  when,  cold  and  weary  with  his  mental 
struggle,  he  rose  and  went  to  his  desk.  There 
was  a  secret  hiding-place  behind  a  drawer  there, 
in  which  he  kept  papers  relating  to  his  transac- 
tions with  Andrew  Starkie,  and  he  put  it  among 
them.  "  I  '11  leave  it  to  its  chance, ' '  he  muttered ; 
"a  fire  might  come  and  burn  it  up  some  day.  If 
it  is  God's  will  to  save  Donald,  he  could  so  order 
it,  and  I  am  fully  insured  against  pecuniary  loss. ' ' 
He  did  not  at  that  moment  see  how  presumptu- 
ously he  was  throwing  his  own  responsibility  on 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE.          139 

God;  lie  did  not  indeed  want  to  see  anything  but 
some  plausible  way  of  avoiding  a  road  too  steep 
for  a  heart  weighed  down  with  earthly  passion  to 
dare. 

Then  weeks  and  months  drifted  away  in  the 
calm  regular  routine  of  David's  life.  But  though 
there  were  no  outward  changes,  there  was  a  very 
important  inward  one.  About  sixteen  months 
after  Donald's  departure  he  returned  to  visit 
Christine.  James,  at  Christine's  urgent  request, 
absented  himself  during  this  visit;  but  when  he 
next  called  at  David's,  he  perceived  at  once  that 
all  was  not  as  had  been  anticipated.  David  had 
little  to  say  about  him;  Christine  looked  paler 
and  sadder  than  ever.  Neither  quite  under- 
stood why.  There  had  been  no  visible  break 
with  Donald,  but  both  father  and  daughter  felt 
that  he  had  drifted  far  away  from  them  and  their 
humble,  pious  life.  Donald  had  lost  the  child's 
heart  he  had  brought  with  him  from  the  moun- 
tains; he  was  ambitious  of  honors,  and  eager  after 
worldly  pleasures  and  advantages.  He  had  be- 
come more  gravely  handsome,  and  he  talked  more 
sensibly  to  David ;  but  David  liked  him  less. 

After  this  visit  there  sprang  up  a  new  hope  in 
James'  heart,  and  he  waited  and  watched,  though 
often  with  very  angry  feelings;  for  he  was  sure 
that  Donald  was  gradually  deserting  Christine. 


SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

She  grew  daily  more  sad  and  silent;  it  was  evi- 
dent she  was  suffering.  The  little  Testament  lay 
now  always  with  her  work,  and  he  noticed  that 
she  frequently  laid  aside  her  sewing  and  read  it 
earnestly,  even  while  David  and  he  were  quietly 
talking  at  the  fireside. 

One  Sabbath,  two  years  after  Donald's  de- 
parture, James  met  David  coming  out  of  church 
alone.  He  could  only  say,  UI  hope  Christine  is 
well." 

"Had  she  been  well,  she  had  been  wi'  me; 
thou  kens  that,  James." 

"I  might  have  done  so.  Christine  is  never 
absent  from  God's  house  when  it  is  open." 

"  It  is  a  good  plan,  James;  for  when  they  who 
go  regular  to  God's  house  are  forced  to  stay  away, 
God  himself  asks  after  them.  I  hae  no  doubt  but 
what  Christine  has  been  visited." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  until  David's  house 
was  in  sight.  "  I  'm  no  caring  for  any  company 
earth  can  gie  me  the  night,  James;  but  the  morn 
I  hae  something  to  tell  you  I  canna  speak  anent 
to-day." 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  141 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  next  day  David  came  into  the  bank 
about  noon,  and  said,  ' '  Come  wi'  me  to  McL,el- 
lan's,  James,  and  hae  a  mutton  pie,  it's  near  by 
lunch-time."  While  they  were  eating  it  David 
said,  ' '  Donald  McFarlane  is  to  be  wedded  next 
month.  He 's  making  a  grand  marriage." 

James  bit  his  lip,  but  said  nothing. 

"He's  spoken  for  Miss  Margaret  Napier;  her 
father  was  ane  o'  the  Lords  o'  Session;  she's  his 
sole  heiress,  and  that  will  mean  ^50,000,  foreby 
the  bonnie  place  and  lands  o'  Ellenshawe." 

"And  Christine?" 

"Dinna  look  that  way,  man.  Christine  is 
content;  she  kens  weel  enough  she  isna  like  her 
cousin." 

' '  God  be  thanked  she  is  not.  Go  away  from 
me,  David  Cameron,  or  I  shall  say  words  that  will 
make  more  suffering  than  you  can  dream  off.  Go 
away,  man." 

David  was  shocked  and  grieved  at  his  com- 
panion's passion.  "James,"  he  said  solemnly, 
"dinna  mak  a  fool  o'  yoursel'.  I  hae  long  seen 
your  ill-will  at  Donald.  Let  it  go.  Donald 's 


142  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

aboon  your  thumb  now,  and  the  anger  o'  a  poor 
man  aye  falls  on  himsel'." 

"For  God's  sake  don't  tempt  me  farther. 
You  little  know  what  I  could  do  if  I  had  the  ill 
heart  to  do  it." 

"Ow!  ay!"  said  David  scornfully,  "  if  the 
poor  cat  had  only  wings  it  would  extirpate  the 
race  of  sparrows  from  the  world;  but  when  the 
wings  arena  there,  James  lad,  it  is  just  as  weel  to 
mak  no  boast  o'  them. ' ' 

James  had  leaned  his  head  in  his  hands,  and 
was  whispering,  "Christine!  Christine!  Chris- 
tine !"  in  a  rapid  inaudible  voice.  He  took  no 
notice  of  David's  remark,  and  David  was  instant- 
ly sorry  for  it.  "The  puir  lad  is  just  sorrowful 
wi'  love  for  Christine,  and  that's  nae  sin  that  I 
can  see,"  he  thought.  "James,"  he  said  kindly, 
4  4 1  am  sorry  enough  to  grieve  you.  Come  as  soon 
as  you  can  like  to  do  it.  You  '11  be  welcome." 

James  slightly  nodded  his  head,  but  did  not 
move;  and  David  left  him  alone  in  the  little 
boarded  room  where  they  had  eaten.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  collected  himself,  and,  like  one  dazed, 
walked  back  to  his  place  in  the  bank.  Never 
had  its  hours  seemed  so  long,  never  had  the  noise 
and  traffic,  the  tramping  of  feet,  and  the  banging 
of  doors  seemed  so  intolerable.  As  early  as  pos- 
sible he  was  at  David's,  and  David,  with  that  fine 


JAMES    B  JACKIE'S    REVENGE.  143 

instinct  that  a  kind  heart  teaches,  said  as  he  en- 
tered, "Gude  evening,  James.  Gae  awa  ben  and 
keep  Christine  company.  I  'm  that  busy  that 
I  '11  no  shut  up  for  half  an  hour  yet." 

James  found  Christine  in  her  usual  place. 
The  hearth  had  been  freshly  swept,  the  fire  blazed 
brightly,  and  she  sat  before  it  with  her  white 
seam  in  her  hand.  She  raised  her  eyes  at  James' 
entrance,  and  smilingly  nodded  to  a  vacant  chair 
near  her.  He  took  it  silently.  Christine  seemed 
annoyed  at  his  silence  in  a  little  while,  and  asked, 
' '  Why  do  n'  t  you  speak,  James  ?  Have  you  noth- 
ing to  say?" 

"A  great  deal,  Christine.  What  now  do  you 
think  of  Donald  McFarlane  ?' ' 

"  I  think  well  of  Donald." 

' '  And  of  his  marriage  also  ?' ' 

4 '  Certainly  I  do.  When  he  was  here  I  saw 
how  unfit  I  was  to  be  his  wife.  I  told  him  so, 
and  bid  him  seek  a  mate  more  suitable  to  his 
position  and  prospects." 

"Do  you  think  it  right  to  let  yonder  lady  wed 
such  a  man  with  her  eyes  shut?" 

"Are  you  going  to  open  them?"  Her  face 
was  sad  and  mournful,  and  she  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  James'  shoulder. 

"I  think  it  is  my  duty,  Christine." 

"Think  again,  James.      Be  sure   it   is  your 


144  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

duty  before  you  go  on  such  an  errand.  See  if 
you  dare  kneel  down  and  ask  God  to  bless  you  in 
this  duty." 

"Christine,  you  treat  me  very  hardly.  You 
know  how  I  love  you,  and  you  use  your  power 
over  me  unmercifully. ' ' 

"No,  no,  James,  I  only  want  you  to  keep 
yourself  out  of  the  power  of  Satan.  If  indeed  I 
have  any  share  in  your  heart,  do  not  wrong  me 
by  giving  Satan  a  place  there  also.  Let  me  at 
least  respect  you,  James." 

Christine  had  never  spoken  in  this  way  before 
to  him;  the  majesty  and  purity  of  her  character 
lifted  him  insensibly  to  higher  thoughts,  her  gen- 
tleness soothed  and  comforted  him.  When  David 
came  in  he  found  them  talking  in  a  calm,  cheer- 
ful tone,  and  the  evening  that  followed  was  one 
of  the  pleasantest  he  could  remember.  Yet  James 
understood  that  Christine  trusted  in  his  forbear- 
ance, and  he  had  no  heart  to  grieve  her,  especially 
as  she  did  her  best  to  reward  him  by  striving  to 
make  his  visits  to  her  father  unusually  happy. 

So  Donald  married  Miss  Napier,  and  the  news- 
papers were  full  of  the  bridegroom's  beauty  and 
talents,  and  the  bride's  high  lineage  and  great  pos- 
sessions. After  this  Donald  and  Donald's  affairs 
seemed  to  very  little  trouble  David's  humble 
household.  His  marriage  put  him  far  away  from 


JAMES   BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  145 

Christine's  thoughts,  for  her  delicate  conscience 
would  have  regarded  it  as  a  great  sin  to  remem- 
ber with  any  feeling  of  love  another  woman's 
affianced  husband;  and  when  the  struggle  be- 
came one  between  right  and  wrong,  it  was  ended 
for  Christine.  David  seldom  named  him,  and  so 
Donald  McFarlane  gradually  passed  out  of  the 
lives  he  had  so  sorely  troubled. 

Slowly  but  surely  James  continued  to  prosper; 
he  rose  to  be  cashier  in  the  bank,  and  he  won  a 
calm  but  certain  place  in  Christine's  regard.  She 
had  never  quite  recovered  the  shock  of  her  long 
illness;  she  was  still  very  frail,  and  easily  ex- 
hausted by  the  least  fatigue  or  excitement.  But 
in  James'  eyes  she  was  perfect;  he  was  always  at 
his  best  in  her  presence,  and  he  was  a  very  proud 
and  happy  man  when,  after  eight  years'  patient 
waiting  and  wooing,  he  won  from  her  the  prom- 
ise to  be  his  wife;  for  he  knew  that  with  Chris- 
tine the  promise  meant  all  that  it  ought  to 
mean. 

The  marriage  made  few  changes  in  her  peace- 
ful life.  James  left  the  bank,  put  his  savings  in 
David's  business,  and  became  his  partner.  But 
they  continued  to  live  in  the  same  house,  and 
year  after  year  passed  away  in  that  happy  calm 
which  leaves  no  records,  and  has  no  fate  days  for 
the  future  to  date  from. 


146  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Sometimes  a  letter,  a  newspaper,  or  some  pub- 
lic event,  would  bring  back  the  memory  of  the 
gay,  handsome  lad  that  had  once  made  so  bright 
the  little  back  parlor.  Such  strays  from  Donald's 
present  life  were  always  pleasant  ones.  In  ten 
years  he  had  made  great  strides  forward.  Every 
one  had  a  good  word  for  him.  His  legal  skill  was 
quoted  as  authority,  his  charities  were  munificent, 
his  name  unblemished  by  a  single  mean  deed. 

Had  James  forgotten  ?  No,  indeed.  Donald's 
success  only  deepened  his  hatred  of  him.  Even 
the  silence  he  was  compelled  to  keep  on  the  sub- 
ject intensified  the  feeling.  Once  after  his  mar- 
riage he  attempted  to  discuss  the  subject  with 
Christine,  but  the  scene  had  been  so  painful  he 
had  never  attempted  it  again ;  and  David  was 
swift  and  positive  to  dismiss  any  unfavorable  al- 
lusion to  Donald.  Once,  on  reading  that  "Advo- 
cate McFarlane  had  joined  the  Free  Kirk  of  Scot- 
land on  open  confession  of  faith,"  James  flung 
down  the  paper  and  said  pointedly,  "I  wonder 
whether  he  confessed  his  wrong-doing  before  his 
faith  or  not." 

"There's  nane  sae  weel  shod,  James,  that 
they  mayna  slip,"  answered  David,  with  a  stern 
face.  "He  has  united  wi'  Dr.  Buchan's  kirk- 
there 's  nane  taken  into  that  fellowship  unworthi- 
ly, as  far  as  man  can  judge." 


JAMKS    BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  147 

u  He  would  be  a  wise  minister  that  got  at  all 
Advocate  McFarlane's  sins,  I  am  thinking." 

' '  Dinna  say  all  ye  think,  James.  They  walk 
too  fair  for  earth  that  naebody  can  find  fault  wi'." 

So  James  nursed  the  evil  passion  in  his  own 
heart;  indeed,  he  had  nursed  it  so  long  that  he 
could  not  of  himself  resign  it,  and  in  all  his  pray- 
ers— and  he  did  pray  frequently,  and  often  sin- 
cerely— he  never  named  this  subject  to  God,  never 
oirce  asked  for  his  counsel  or  help  in  the  matter. 

Twelve  years  after  his  marriage  with  Chris- 
tine David  died,  died  as  he  had  often  wished  to 
die,  very  suddenly.  He  was  well  at  noon ;  at 
night  he  had  put  on  the  garments  of  eternal  Sab- 
bath. He  had  but  a  few  moments  of  conscious- 
ness in  which  to  bid  farewell  to  his  children. 
"Christine,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "we'll  no  be 
lang  parted,  dear  lassie  ;"  and  to  James  a  few 
words  on  his  affairs,  and  then  almost  with  his  last 
breath,  "James,  heed  what  I  say:  'Blessed  are 
the  merciful,  for  they  shall — obtain  mercy.'  " 

There  seemed  to  have  been  some  prophetic 
sense  in  David's  parting  words  to  his  daughter, 
for  soon  after  his  death  she  began  to  fail  rapidly. 
What  James  suffered  as  he  saw  it  only  those  can 
tell  who  have  watched  their  beloved  slowly  dy- 
ing-, and  hoped  against  hope  day  after  day  and 
week  after  week.  Perhaps  the  hardest  part  was 


148  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

the  knowledge  that  she  had  never  recovered  the 
health  she  had  previous  to  the  terrible  shock 
which  his  revelation  of  Donald's  guilt  had  been 
to  her.  He  forgot  his  own  share  in  the  shock, 
and  threw  the  whole  blame  of  her  early  decay  on 
Donald.  ' '  And  if  she  dies, ' '  he  kept  saying  in  his 
angry  heart,  "I  will  make  him  suffer  for  it." 

And  Christine  was  drawing  very  near  to  death, 
though  even  when  she  was  confined  to  her  room 
and  bed  James  would  not  believe  it.  And  it  was 
at  this  time  that  Donald  came  once  more  to  Glas- 
gow. There  was  a  very  exciting  general  election 
for  a  new  Parliament,  and  Donald  stood  for  the 
Conservative  party  in  the  city  of  Glasgow.  Noth- 
ing could  have  so  speedily  ripened  James'  evil 
purpose.  Should  a  forger  represent  his  native 
city  ?  Should  he  see  the  murderer  of  his  Chris- 
tine win  honor  upon  honor,  when  he  had  but  to 
speak  and  place  him  among  thieves  ? 

During  the  struggle  he  worked  frantically  to 
defeat  him — and  failed.  That  night  he  came 
home  like  a  man  possessed  by  some  malicious, 
ungovernable  spirit  of  hell.  He  would  not  go  to 
Christine's  room,  for  he  was  afraid  she  would  dis- 
cover his  purpose  in  his  face,  and  win  him  from 
it.  For  now  he  had  sworn  to  himself  that  he 
would  only  wait  until  the  congratulatory  dinner. 
He  could  get  an  invitation  to  it.  All  the  bailies 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S    REVENGE.  149 

and  the  great  men  of  the  city  would  be  there. 
The  newspaper  reporters  would  be  there.  His 
triumph  would  be  complete.  Donald  would 
doubtless  make  a  great  speech,  and  after  it  he 
would  say  his  few  words. 

Then  he  thought  of  Christine.  But  she  did 
not  move  him  now,  for  she  was  never  likely  to 
hear  of  it.  She  was  confined  to  her  bed ;  she  read 
nothing  but  her  Bible;  she  saw  no  one  but  her 
nurse.  He  would  charge  the  nurse,  and  he  would 
keep  all  papers  and  letters  from  her.  He  thought 
of  nothing  now  but  the  near  gratification  of  a  re- 
vengeful purpose  for  which  he  had  waited  twenty 
years.  Oh,  how  sweet  it  seemed  to  him  ! 

The  dinner  was  to  be  in  a  week,  and  during 
the  next  few  days  he  was  like  a  man  in  a  bad 
dream.  He  neglected  his  business,  and  wandered 
restlessly  about  the  house,  and  looked  so  fierce 
and  haggard  that  Christine  began  to  notice,  to 
watch,  and  to  fear.  She  knew  that  Donald  was 
in  the  city,  and  her  heart  told  her  that  it  was  his 
presence  only  that  could  so  alter  her  husband ; 
and  she  poured  it  out  in  strong  supplications  for 
strength  and  wisdom  to  avert  the  calamity  she 
felt  approaching. 

That  night  her  nurse  became  sick  and  could 
not  remain  with  her,  and  James,  half  reluctantly, 
took  her  place,  for  he  feared  Christine's  influence 


150  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

now.  She  would  ask  him  to  read  the  Bible,  to 
pray  with  her;  she  might  talk  to  him  of  death 
and  heaven;  she  might  name  Donald,  and  extract 
some  promise  from  him.  And  he  was  determined 
now  that  nothing  should  move  him.  So  he  pre- 
tended great  weariness,  drew  a  large  chair  to  her 
bedside,  and  said, 

"  I  shall  try  and  sleep  a  while,  darling;  if  you 
need  me  you  have  only  to  speak. ' ' 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE;. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HE  was  more  weary  than  he  knew,  and  ere  he 
was  aware  he  fell  asleep — a  restless,  wretched 
sleep,  that  made  him  glad  when  the  half-oblivion 
was  over.  Christine,  however,  was  apparently  at 
rest,  and  he  soon  relapsed  into  the  same  dark, 
haunted  state  of  unconsciousness.  Suddenly  he 
began  to  mutter  and  moan,  and  then  to  speak 
with  a  hoarse,  whispered  rapidity  that  had  in  it 
something  frightful  and  unearthly.  But  Chris- 
tine listened  with  wide-open  eyes,  and  heard  with 
sickening  terror  the  whole  wicked  plot.  It  fell 
from  his  half-open  lips  over  and  over  in  every 
detail ;  and  over  and  over  he  laughed  low  and 
terribly  at  the  coming  shame  of  the  hated  Don- 
ald. 

She  had  not  walked  alone  for  weeks,  nor  in- 
deed been  out  of  her  room  for  months,  but  she 
must  go  now;  and  she  never  doubted  her  strength. 
As  if  she  had  been  a  spirit,  she  slipped  out  of  bed, 
walked  rapidly  and  noiselessly  into  the  long-unfa- 
miliar parlor.  A  rushlight  was  burning,  and  the 
key  of  the  old  desk  was  always  in  it.  Nothing 
valuable  was  kept  there,  and  people  unacquaint- 


152  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

ed  with  the  secret  of  the  hidden  drawer  would 
have  looked  in  vain  for  the  entrance  to  it.  Chris- 
tine had  known  it  for  years,  but  her  wifely  honor 
had  held  it  more  sacred  than  locks  or  keys  could 
have  done.  She  was  aware  only  that  James  kept 
some  private  matter  of  importance  there,  and  she 
would  as  readily  have  robbed  her  husband's  purse 
as  have  spied  into  things  of  which  he  did  not 
speak  to  her. 

Now,  however,  all  mere  thoughts  of  courtesy 
or  honor  must  yield  before  the  alternative  in 
which  James  and  Donald  stood.  She  reached  the 
desk,  drew  out  the  concealing  drawer,  pushed 
aside  the  slide,  and  touched  the  paper.  There 
were  other  papers  there,  but  something  taught 
her  at  once  the  right  one.  To  take  it  and  close 
the  desk  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment,  then 
back  she  flew  as  swiftly  and  noiselessly  as  a  spirit 
with  the  condemning  evidence  tightly  clasped  in 
her  hand. 

James  was  still  muttering  and  moaning  in  his 
troubled  sleep,  and  with  the  consciousness  of  her 
success  all  her  unnatural  strength  passed  away. 
She  could  hardly  secrete  it  in  her  bosom  ere  she 
fell  into  a  semi-conscious  lethargy,  through  which 
she  heard  with  terror  her  husband's  low,  weird 
laughter  and  whispered  curses. 

At  length  the  day  for  the  dinner  came.   James 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S    REVENGE.  153 

had  procured  an  invitation,  and  lie  made  unusual 
personal  preparations  for  it.  He  was  conscious 
that  he  was  going  to  do  a  very  mean  action,  but 
he  would  look  as  well  as  possible  in  the  act.  He 
had  even  his  apology  for  it  ready;  he  would  say 
that  ' '  as  long  as  it  was  a  private  wrong  he  had 
borne  the  loss  patiently  for  twenty  years,  but  that 
the  public  welfare  demanded  honest  men,  men 
above  reproach,  and  he  could  no  longer  feel  it  his 
duty,"  etc.,  etc. 

After  he  was  dressed  he  bid  Christine  ' '  Good- 
by." 

"  He  would  only  stay  an  hour,"  he  said,  "and 
he  must  needs  go,  as  Donald  was  her  kin." 

Then  he  went  to  the  desk,  and  with  hands 
trembling  in  their  eagerness  sought  the  bill.  It 
was  not  there.  Impossible!  He  looked  again — 
again  more  carefully — could  not  believe  his  eyes, 
and  looked  again  and  again.  It  was  really  gone. 
If  the  visible  hand  of  God  had  struck  him,  he 
could  not  have  felt  it  more  consciously.  He 
mechanically  closed  the  desk  and  sat  down  like 
one  stunned.  Cain  might  have  felt  as  James  did 
when  God  asked  him,  "Where  is  thy  brother?" 
He  did  not  think  of  prayer.  No  ' '  God  be  merciful 
to  me  a  sinner"  came  as  yet  from  his  dry,  white 
lips.  The  fountains  of  his  heart  seemed  dry  as 
dust.  The  anger  of  God  weighed  him  down  till 

20 


154  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"  He  felt  as  one 

Who,  waking  after  some  strange,  fevered  dream, 
Sees  a  dim  land  and  things  unspeakable, 
And  comes  to  know  at  last  that  it  is  hell." 

Meantime  Christine  was  lying .  with  folded 
hands,  praying  for  him.  She  knew  what  an 
agony  he  was  going  through,  and  ceaselessly 
with  pure  supplications  she  prayed  for  his  for- 
giveness. About  midnight  one  came  and  told 
him  his  wife  wanted  to  see  him.  He  rose  with  a 
wretched  sigh,  and  looked  at  the  clock.  He  had 
sat  there  six  hours.  He  had  thought  over  every- 
thing, over  and  over — the  certainty  that  the  paper 
was  there,  the  fact  that  no  other  paper  had  been 
touched,  and  that  no  human  being  but  Christine 
knew  of  the  secret  place.  These  things  shocked 
him  beyond  expression.  It  was  to  his  mind  a 
visible  assertion  of  the  divine  prerogative;  he 
had  really  heard  God  say  to  him,  "Vengeance  is 
mine."  The  lesson  that  in  these  materialistic 
days  we  would  reason  away,  James  humbly  ac- 
cepted. His  religious  feelings  were,  after  all,  his 
deepest  feelings,  and  in  those  six  hours  he  had  so 
palpably  felt  the  frown  of  his  angry  Heavenly 
Father  that  he  had  quite  forgotten  his  poor, 
puny  wrath  at  Donald  McFarlane. 

As  he  slowly  walked  up  stairs  to  Christine  he 
determined  to  make  to  her  a  full  confession  of  the 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  REVENGE.  155 

deed  he  had  meditated.  But  when  he  reached 
her  bedside  he  saw  that  she  was  nearly  dead. 
She  smiled  faintly  and  said, 

1 '  Send  all  away,  James.  I  must  speak  alone 
with  you,  dear;  we  are  going  to  part,  my  hus- 
band." 

Then  he  knelt  down  by  her  side  and  held  her 
cold  hands,  and  the  gracious  tears  welled  up  in 
his  hot  eyes,  and  he  covered  them  with  the  blessed 
rain. 

' '  O  James,  how  you  have  suffered — since  six 
o'clock." 

' '  You  know  then,  Christine  !  I  would  weep 
tears  of  blood  over  my  sin.  O  dear,  dear  wife, 
take  no  shameful  memory  of  me  into  etemity 
with  you. ' ' 

' '  See  how  I  trust  you,  James.  Here  is  poor, 
weak  Donald's  note.  I  know  now  you  will 
never  use  it  against  him.  What  if  your  six  hours 
were  lengthened  out  through  life — through  eter- 
nity ?  I  ask  no  promise  from  you  now,  dear. ' ' 

"But  I  give  it.  Before  God  I  give  it,  with 
all  my  heart.  My  sin  has  found  me  out  this 
night.  How  has  God  borne  with  me  all  these 
years?  Oh,  how  great  is  his  mercy  !" 

Then  Christine  told  him  how  he  had  revealed 
his  wicked  plot,  and  how  wonderful  strength  had 
been  given  her  to  defeat  it;  and  the  two  souls, 


156  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

amid  their  parting  sighs  and  tears,  knew  each 
other  as  they  had  never  done  through  all  their 
years  of  life. 

For  a  week  James  remained  in  his  own  room. 
Then  Christine  was  laid  beside  her  father,  and 
the  shop  was  reopened,  and  the  household  re- 
turned to  its  ways.  But  James  was  not  seen  in 
house  or  shop,  and  the  neighbors  said, 

"  Kirsty  Cameron  has  had  a  wearisome  sick- 
ness, and  nae  doobt  her  gudeman  was  needing  a 
rest.  Bootless  he  has  gane  to  the  Hielands  a 
bit." 

But  it  was  not  northward  James  Blackie 
went.  It  was  south;  south  past  the  bonnie  Cum- 
berland Hills  and  the  great  manufacturing  towns 
of  Lancashire  and  the  rich  valleys  of  Yorkshire; 
southward  until  he  stopped  at  last  in  London. 
Even  then,  though  he  was  weary  and  sick  and 
the  night  had  fallen,  he  did  not  rest.  He  took  a 
carriage  and  drove  at  once  to  a  fashionable  man- 
sion in  Baker  street.  The  servant  looked  curi- 
ously at  him  and  felt  half  inclined  to  be  insolent 
to  such  a  visitor. 

"Take  that  card  to  your  master  at  once,"  he 
said  in  a  voice  whose  authority  could  not  be  dis- 
puted, and  the  man  went. 

His  master  was  lying  on  a  sofa  in  a  luxuri- 
ously-furnished room,  playing  with  a  lovely  girl 


JAMES    BLACKIE'S   REVENGE.  157 

about  four  years  old,  and  listening  meanwhile 
to  an  enthusiastic  account  of  a  cricket  match 
that  two  boys  of  about  twelve  and  fourteen  years 
were  giving  him.  He  was  a  strikingly  hand- 
some man,  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  thorough- 
ly happy  expression.  He  took  James'  card  in  a 
careless  fashion,  listened  to  the  end  of  his  sons' 
story,  and  then  looked  at  it.  Instantly  his  man- 
ner changed ;  he  stood  up,  and  said  promptly, 

' '  Go  away  now,  Miss  Margaret,  and  you  also, 
Angus  and  David;  I  have  an  old  friend  to  see." 
Then  to  the  servant,  ' '  Bring  the  gentleman  here 
at  once." 

When  he  heard  James'  step  he  went  to  meet 
him  with  open  hand;  but  James  said, 

"Not  just  yet,  Mr.  McFarlane;  hear  what  I 
have  to  say.  Then  if  you  offer  your  hand  I  will 
take  it." 

"Christine  is  dead?" 

"Dead,  dead." 

They  sat  down  opposite  each  other,  and  James 
did  not  spare  himself.  From  his  discovery  of  the 
note  in  old  Starkie's  possession  until  the  death  of 
Christine,  he  confessed  everything.  Donald  sat 
with  downcast  eyes,  quite  silent.  Once  or  twice 
his  fierce  Highland  blood  surged  into  his  face, 
and  his  hand  stole  mechanically  to  the  place 
where  his  dirk  had  once  been,  but  the  motion 


158  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

was  as  transitory  as  a  thought.  When  James  had 
finished  he  sat  with  compressed  lips  for  a  few 
moments,  quite  unable  to  control  his  speech;  but 
at  length  he  slowly  said, 

"  I  wish  I  nad  known  all  this  before;  it  would 
have  saved  much  sin  and  suffering.  You  said 
that  my  indifference  at  first  angered  you.  I  must 
correct  this.  I  was  not  indifferent.  No  one  can 
tell  what  suffering  that  one  cowardly  act  cost  me. 
But  before  the  bill  fell  due  I  went  frankly  to 
Uncle  David  and  confessed  all  my  sin.  What 
passed  between  us  you  may  guess;  but  he  forgave 
me  freely  and  fully,  as  I  trust  God  did  also. 
Hence  there  was  no  cause  for  its  memory  to 
darken  life." 

UI  always  thought  Christine  had  told  her 
father,"  muttered  James. 

"Nay,  but  I  told  him  myself.  He  said  he 
would  trace  the  note,  and  I  have  no  doubt  he 
knew  it  was  in  your  keeping  from  the  first." 

Then  James  took  it  from  his  pocket-book. 

"  There  it  is,  Mr.  McFarlane.  Christine  gave 
it  back  to  me  the  hour  she  died.  I  promised  her 
to  bring  it  to  you  and  tell  you  all." 

"Christine's  soul  was  a  white  rose  without  a 
thorn.  I  count  it  an  honor  to  have  known  and 
loved  her.  But  the  paper  is  yours,  Mr.  Blackie, 
unless  I  may  pay  for  it." 


JAMES  BLACKIE'S  RKVENGE.  159 

"  O  man,  man  !  what  money  could  pay  for  it? 
I  would  not  dare  to  sell  it  for  the  whole  world ! 
Take  it,  I  pray  you. ' ' 

"  I  will  not.  Do  as  you  wish  with  it,  James. 
I  can  trust  you." 

Then  James  walked  towards  the  table.  There 
were  wax  lights  burning  on  it,  and  he  held  it  in 
the  flame  and  watched  it  slowly  consume  away  to 
ashes.  The  silence  was  so  intense  that  they  heard 
each  other  breathing,  and  the  expression  on 
James'  face  was  so  rapt  and  noble  that  even  Don- 
ald's stately  beauty  was  for  the  moment  less 
attractive.  Then  he  walked  towards  Donald  and 
said, 

' '  Now  give  me  your  hand,  McFarlane,  and 
I'll  take  it  gladly." 

And  that  was  a  handclasp  that  meant  to  both 
men  what  no  words  could  have  expressed. 

' '  Farewell,  McFarlane ;  our  ways  in  this  world 
lie  far  apart;  but  when  we  come  to  die  it  will 
comfort  both  of  us  to  remember  this  meeting. 
God  be  with  you  !" 

"And  with  you  also,  James.     Farewell." 

Then  James  went  back  to  his  store  and  his 
shadowed  household  life.  And  people  said  he 
looked  happier  than  ever  he  had  done,  and  pitied 
him  for  his  sick  wife,  and  supposed  he  felt  it  a 
happy  release  to  be  rid  of  her.  So  wrongly  does 


160  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

the  world,  which  knows  nothing  of  our  real  life, 
judge  us. 

You  may  see  his  gravestone  in  Glasgow  Ne- 
cropolis to-day,  and  people  will  tell  you  that  he 
was  a  great  philanthropist,  and  gave  away  a  no- 
ble fortune  to  the  sick  and  the  ignorant;  and  you 
will  probably  wonder  to  see  only  beneath  his 
name  the  solemn  text,  "Vengeance  is  mine;  I 
will  repay,  saith  the  I^ord." 


Pacing  Jiis  Enemy, 


21 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FORTY  years  ago  there  stood  in  the  lower  part 
of  the  city  of  Glasgow  a  large,  plain  building 
which  was  to  hundreds  of  very  intelligent  Scotch- 
men almost  sacred  ground.  It  stood  among  ware- 
houses and  factories,  and  in  a  very  unfashionable 
quarter;  but  for  all  that,  it  was  Dr.  William  Mor- 
rison's kirk.  And  Dr.  Morrison  was  in  every 
respect  a  remarkable  man — a  Scotchman  with  the 
old  Hebrew  fervor  and  sublimity,  who  accepted 
the  extremest  tenets  of  his  creed  with  a  deep  reli- 
gious faith,  and  scorned  to  trim  or  moderate  them 
in  order  to  suit  what  he  called  ua  sinfu'  latitudi- 
narian  age." 

Such  a  man  readily  found  among  the  solid 
burghers  of  Glasgow  a  large  "following"  of  a 
very  serious  kind,  douce,  dour  men,  whose  strong- 
ly-marked features  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
chiselled  out  of  their  native  granite — men  who 
settled  themselves  with  a  grave  kind  of  enjoy- 


164  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

ment  to  listen  to  a  full  hour's  sermon,  and  who 
watched  every  point  their  minister  made  with  a 
critical  acumen  that  seemed  more  fitting  to  a 
synod  of  divines  than  a  congregation  of  weavers 
and  traders. 

A  prominent  man  in  this  remarkable  church 
was  Deacon  John  Callendar.  He  had  been  one 
of  its  first  members,  and  it  was  everything  to  his 
heart  that  Jerusalem  is  to  the  Jew,  or  Mecca  to 
the  Mohammedan.  He  believed  his  minister  to 
be  the  best  and  wisest  of  men,  though  he  was  by 
no  means  inclined  to  allow  himself  a  lazy  confi- 
dence in  this  security.  It  was  the  special  duty 
of  deacons  to  keep  a  strict  watch  over  doctrinal 
points,  and  though  he  had  never  had  occasion  to 
dissent  in  thirty  years'  scrutiny,  he  still  kept  the 
watch. 

In  the  temporal  affairs  of  the  church  it  had 
been  different.  There  was  no  definite  creed  for 
guidance  in  these  matters,  and  eight  or  ten  men 
with  strong,  rugged  wills  about  £,  s.,  d.,  each 
thinking  highly  of  his  own  discretion  in  mone- 
tary affairs,  and  rather  indifferently  of  the  minis- 
ter's gifts  in  this  direction,  were  not  likely  to  have 
always  harmonious  sessions. 

They  had  had  a  decidedly  inharmonious  one 
early  in  January  of  184-,  and  Deacon  Callendar 
had  spoken  his  mind  with  his  usual  bhint  direct- 


FACING   HIS  ENEMY.  165 

ness.  He  had  been  a  good  deal  nettled  at  the 
minister's  attitude,  for,  instead  of  seconding  his 
propositions,  Dr.  Morrison  had  sat  with  a  far- 
away, indifferent  look,  as  if  the  pending  discus- 
sion was  entirely  out  of  his  range  of  interest. 
John  could  have  borne  contradiction  better.  An 
argument  would  have  gratified  him.  But  to  have 
the  speech  and  statistics  which  he  had  so  care- 
fully prepared  fall  on  the  minister's  ear  without 
provoking  any  response  was  a  great  trial  of  his 
patience.  He  was  inwardly  very  angry,  though 
outwardly  very  calm;  but  Dr.  Morrison  knew 
well  what  a  tumult  was  beneath  the  dour  still 
face  of  the  deacon  as  he  rose  from  his  chair,  put 
on  his  plaid,  and  pulled  his  bonnet  over  his  brows. 

"John,"  he  said  kindly,  "you  are  a  wise 
man,  and  I  aye  thought  so.  It  takes  a  Christian 
to  lead  passion  by  the  bridle.  A  Turk  is  a  placid 
gentleman,  John,  but  he  cannot  do  it." 

"Ou,  ay!  doubtless!  There  is  talk  o'  the 
Turk  and  the  Pope,  but  it  is  my  neighbors  that 
trouble  me  the  maist,  minister.  Good-night  to  ye 
all.  If  ye  vote  to-night  you  can  e'en  count  my 
vote  wi'  Dr.  Morrison's;  it  will  be  as  sensible  and 
warld-like  as  any  o'  the  lave. ' ' 

With  this  parting  reflection  he  went  out.  It 
had  begun  to  snow,  and  the  still,  white  solitude 
made  him  ashamed  of  his  temper.  He  looked  up 


166  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

at  the  quiet  heavens  above  him,  then  at  the  quiet 
street  before  him,  and  muttered  with  a  spice  of 
satisfaction,  ''Speaking  comes  by  nature,  and 
silence  by  understanding.  I  am  thankfu'  now  I 
let  Deacon  Strang  hae  the  last  word.  I'm  say- 
ing naught  against  Strang;  he  may  gie  good 
counsel,  but  they  '11  be  fools  that  tak  it." 

"Uncle!" 

"  Hout,  Davie !    Whatna  for  are  you  here  ?" 

"  It  began  to  snow,  and  I  thought  you  would 
be  the  better  of  your  cloak  and  umbrella.  You 
seem  vexed,  uncle." 

"Vexed?  Ay.  The  minister  is  the  maist 
contrary  o'  mortals.  He  kens  naething  about 
church  government,  and  he  treats  gude  siller  as 
if  it  wasna  worth  the  counting;  but  he's  a  glide 
man,  and  a  great  man,  Davie,  and  folk  canna 
serve  the  altar  and  be  money-changers  too.  I 
ought  to  keep  that  i'  mind.  It's  Deacon  Strang, 
and  no  the  minister." 

"Well,  uncle,  you  must  just  thole  it;  you 
know  what  the  New  Testament  says?" 

' '  Ay,  ay  ;  I  ken  it  says  if  a  man  be  struck  on 
one  cheek,  he  must  turn  the  other;  but,  Davie, 
let  me  tell  you  that  the  man  who  gets  the  first 
blow  generally  deserves  the  second.  It  is  gude 
Christian  law  no  to  permit  the  first  stroke.  That 
is  my  interpretation  o'  the  matter." 


FACING   HIS    ENEMY.  167 

"  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Young  folk  don't  think  o'  everything." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  this  last 
remark  which  seemed  to  fit  best  into  silence,  and 
David  Callendar  had  a  particular  reason  for  not 
further  irritating  his  uncle.  The  two  men  with- 
out any  other  remark  reached  the  large,  hand- 
some house  in  Blytheswood  Square  which  was 
their  home.  Its  warmth  and  comfort  had  an  im- 
mediate effect  on  the  deacon.  He  looked  pleas- 
antly at  the  blazing  fire  and  the  table  on  the 
hearthrug,  with  its  basket  of  oaten  cakes,  its 
pitcher  of  cream,  and  its  whiskey-bottle  and  tod- 
dy glasses.  The  little  brass  kettle  was  simmering 
before  the  fire,  his  slippers  were  invitingly  warm, 
his  loose  coat  lying  over  the  back  of  his  soft,  am- 
ple chair,  and  just  as  he  had  put  them  on,  and 
sank  down  with  a  sigh  of  content,  a  bright  old 
lady  entered  with  a  spicy  dish  of  kippered  salmon. 

"I  thought  I  wad  bring  ye  a  bit  relish  wi' 
your  toddy,  deacon.  Talking  is  hungry  wark. 
I  think  a  man  might  find  easier  pleasuring  than 
going  to  a  kirk  session  through  a  snowstorm." 

"A  man  might,  Jenny.  They  'd  suit  women- 
folk wonderfu';  there's  plenty  o'  talk  and  little 
wark." 

' '  Then  I  dinna  see  ony  call  to  mak  a  change, 
deacon. ' ' 


1 68  SCOTTISH    SKETCHES. 

"Now,  Jenny,  you've  had  the  last  word,  sae 
ye  can  go  to  bed  wi'  an  easy  mind.  And,  Jenny, 
woman,  dinna  let  your  quarrel  wi'  Maggie  Laun- 
der come  between  you  and  honest  sleep.  I  think 
that  will  settle  her,"  he  observed  with  a  pawky 
smile,  as  his  housekeeper  shut  the  door  with  un- 
necessary haste. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  David,  mixing  an- 
other glass  of  toddy,  drew  his  chair  closer  to  the 
fire,  and  said,  "  Uncle  John,  I  want  to  speak  to 
you. ' ' 

"Speak  on,  laddie;"  but  David  noticed  that 
even  with  the  permission,  cautious  curves  settled 
round  his  uncle's  eyes,  and  his  face  assumed  that 
business-like  immobility  which  defied  his  scruti- 
ny. 

"I  have  had  a  very  serious  talk  with  Robert 
Leslie ;  he  is  thinking  of  buying  Alexander 
Hastie  out." 

41  Why  not  think  o'  buy  ing  out  Robert  Napier, 
or  Gavin  Campbell,  or  Clydeside  Woolen  Works? 
A  body  might  as  weel  think  o'  a  thousand  spin- 
dles as  think  o'  fifty." 

"  But  he  means  business.  An  aunt,  who  has 
lately  died  in  Galloway,  has  left  him  ^2,000." 

"That  isna  capital  enough  to  run  Sandy 
Hastie'smill." 

"  He  wants  me  to  join  him." 


FACTNO  HIS  KNKMY.  169 

"And  how  will  that  help  matters?  Twa 
thousand  pounds  added  to  Davie  Callendar  will 
be  just  ^2,000." 

u  I  felt  sure  you  would  lend  me  ^2,000;  and 
in  that  case  it  would  be  a  great  chance  for  me.  I 
am  very  anxious  to  be — ' ' 

"  Your  ain  maister." 

' '  Not  that  altogether,  uncle,  although  you 
know  well  the  Callendars  come  of  a  kind  that  do 
not  like  to  serve.  I  want  to  have  a  chance  to 
make  money." 

"How  much  of  your  salary  have  you 
saved  ?' ' 

' '  I  have  never  tried  to  save  anything  yet,  un- 
cle, but  I  am  going  to  begin." 

The  old  man  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  said,  "  I  wont  do  it,  Davie." 

"  It  is  only  ^2,000,  Uncle  John." 

"  Only  ^2,000!  Hear  the  lad!  Did  ye  ever 
mak  ^2,000?  Did  ye  ever  save  ^2,000?  When 
ye  hae  done  that  ye '11  ne'er  put  in  the  adverb, 
Davie.  Only  £  2,000,  indeed!" 

"  I  thought  you  loved  me,  uncle." 

( '  I  love  no  human  creature  better  than  you. 
Whatna  for  should  I  not  love  you  ?  You  are  the 
only  thing  left  to  me  o'  the  bonnie  brave  brother 
who  wrapped  his  colors  round  him  in  the  Afghan 
Pass,  the  brave-hearted  lad  who  died  fighting 

22 


770  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

twenty  to  one.  And  you  are  whiles  sae  like  him 
that  I'm  tempted — na,  na,  that  is  a'  byganes.  I 
will  not  let  you  hae  the ,£2,000,  that  is  the  busi- 
ness in  hand. ' ' 

"What  for?" 

"  If  you  will  hear  the  truth,  that  second  glass 
o'  whiskey  is  reason  plenty.  I  hae  taken  my  ane 
glass  every  night  for  forty  years,  and  I  hae  ne'er 
made  the  ane  twa,  except  New  Year's  tide." 

"That  is  fair  nonsense,  Uncle  John.  There 
are  plenty  of  men  whom  you  trust  for  more  than 
^2,000  who  can  take  four  glasses  for  their  night- 
cap always." 

"That  may  be;  I  'm  no  denying  it;  but  what 
is  lawfu'  in  some  men  is  sinfu'  in  others." 

"  I  do  not  see  that  at  all." 

"  Do  you  mind  last  summer,  when  we  were  up 
in  Argyleshire,  how  your  cousin,  Roy  Callendar, 
walked,  with  ne'er  the  wink  o'  an  eyelash,  on  a 
mantel-shelf  hanging  over  a  three-hundred-feet 
precipice  ?  Roy  had  the  trained  eyesight  and  the 
steady  nerve  which  made  it  lawfu'  for  him;  for 
you  or  me  it  had  been  suicide — naething  less  sin- 
fu'. Three  or  four  glasses  o'  whiskey  are  safer 
for  some  men  than  twa  for  you.  I  hae  been  feel- 
ing it  my  duty  to  tell  you  this  for  some  time. 
Never  look  sae  glum,  Davie,  or  I  '11  be  thinking 
it  is  my  siller  and  no  mysel'  you  were  caring  for 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  171 

the  night  when  ye  thought  o'  my  cloak  and  um- 
brella." 

The  young  man  rose  in  a  perfect  blaze  of  pas- 
sion. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  his  uncle.  "  One 
would  think  you  were  your  grandfather,  Evan 
Callendar,  and  that  some  English  red-coat  had 
trod  on  your  tartan.  Hout !  What 's  the  use  o' 
a  temper  like  that  to  folk  wha  hae  taken  to  the 
spindle  instead  o'  the  claymore?" 

"  I  am  a  Callendar  for  all  that." 

' '  Sae  am  I,  sae  am  I,  and  vera  proud  o'  it  fore- 
bye.  We  are  a'  kin,  Davie;  blood  is  thicker  than 
water,  and  we  wont  quarrel." 

David  put  down  his  unfinished  glass  of  toddy. 
He  could  not  trust  himself  to  discuss  the  matter 
any  farther,  but  as  he  left  the  room  he  paused, 
with  the  open  door  in  his  hand,  and  said, 

' '  If  you  are  afraid  I  am  going  to  be  a  drunk- 
ard, why  did  you  not  care  for  the  fear  before  it 
became  a  question  of  ^2,000?  And  if  I  ever  do 
become  one,  remember  this,  Uncle  John — you 
mixed  my  first  glass  for  me  !" 


172  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  POSITIVE  blow  could  hardly  have  stunned 
John  Callendar  as  this  accusation  did.  He  could 
not  have  answered  it,  even  if  he  had  had  an  op- 
portunity, and  the  shock  was  the  greater  that  it 
brought  with  it  a  sudden  sense  of  responsibility, 
yea,  even  guilt.  At  first  the  feeling  was  one  of 
anger  at  this  sudden  charge  of  conscience.  He 
began  to  excuse  himself;  he  was  not  to  blame  if 
other  people  could  not  do  but  they  must  o'erdo ; 
then  to  assure  himself  that,  being  God's  child, 
there  could  be  no  condemnation  in  the  matter  to 
him.  But  his  heart  was  too  tender  and  honest  to 
find  rest  in  such  apologies,  and  close  upon  his  an- 
ger at  the  lad  crowded  a  host  of  loving  memories 
that  would  not  be  put  away. 

David's  father  had  been  very  dear  to  him.  He 
recalled  his  younger  brother  in  a  score  of  tender 
situations:  the  schoolhouse  in  which  they  had 
studied  cheek  to  cheek  over  one  book;  the  little 
stream  in  which  they  had  paddled  and  fished  on 
holidays,  the  fir-wood,  the  misty  comes,  and  the 
heathery  mountains  of  Argyle;  above  all,  he  re- 
membered the  last  time  that  he  had  ever  seen  the 
bright  young  face  marching  at  the  head  of  his 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  173 

company  down  Buchanan  street  on  his  way  to 
India.  David's  mother  was  a  still  tenderer  mem- 
ory, and  John  Callendar's  eyes  grew  misty  as  his 
heart  forced  him  to  recall  that  dark,  wintry  after- 
noon when  she  had  brought  David  to  him,  and 
he  had  solemnly  promised  to  be  a  father  to  the 
lad.  It  was  the  last  promise  between  them;  three 
weeks  afterwards  he  stood  at  her  grave's  side. 
Time  is  said  to  dim  such  memories  as  these.  It 
never  does.  After  many  years  some  sudden  event 
recalls  the  great  crises  of  any  life  with  all  the  viv- 
idness of  their  first  occurrence. 

Confused  as  these  memories  were,  they  blend- 
ed with  an  equal  confusion  of  feelings.  L,ove, 
anger,  regret,  fear,  perplexity,  condemnation,  ex- 
cuse, followed  close  on  each  other,  and  John's 
mind,  though  remarkably  clear  and  acute,  was 
one  trained  rather  to  the  consideration  of  things 
point  by  point  than  to  the  catching  of  the  proper 
clew  in  a  mental  labyrinth.  After  an  hour's  mis- 
erable uncertainty  he  was  still  in  doubt  what  to 
do.  The  one  point  of  comfort  he  had  been  able  to 
reach  was  the  hope  that  David  had  gone  straight 
to  Jenny  with  his  grievance.  "  And  though  wo- 
men-folk arena  much  as  counsellors,"  thought 
John,  "they  are  wonderfu'  comforters;  and  Jenny 
will  ne'er  hear  tell  o'  his  leaving  the  house;  sae 
there  will  be  time  to  put  right  what  is  wrong." 


174  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

But  though  David  had  always  hitherto,  when 
lessons  were  hard  or  lassies  scornful,  gone  with 
his  troubles  to  the  faithful  Jenny,  he  did  not  do 
so  at  this  time.  He  did  not  even  bid  her  "Good- 
night," and  there  was  such  a  look  on  his  face  that 
she  considered  it  prudent  not  to  challenge  the 
omission. 

"It  will  be  either  money  or  marriage,"  she 
thought  "If  it  be  money,  the  deacon  has  mair 
than  is  good  for  him  to  hae;  if  it  be  marriage,  it 
will  be  Isabel  Strang,  and  that  the  deacon  wont 
like.  But  it  is  his  ain  wife  Davie  is  choosing, 
and  I  am  for  letting  the  lad  hae  the  lass  he  likes 
best." 

Jenny  had  come  to  these  conclusions  in  ten 
minutes,  but  she  waited  patiently  for  an  hour  be- 
fore she  interrupted  her  master.  Then  the  clock 
struck  midnight,  and  she  felt  herself  aggrieved. 

"Deacon,"  she  said  sharply,  "  ye  should  mak 
the  day  day  and  the  night  night,  and  ye  would 
if  ye  had  a  three  weeks'  ironing  to  do  the  morn. 
It  has  chappit  twelve,  sir." 

"Jenny,  I'm  not  sleeplike  to-night.  There 
hae  been  ill  words  between  David  and  me." 

"And  I  am  mair  than  astonished  at  ye,  dea- 
con. Ye  are  auld  enough  to  ken  that  ill  words 
canna  be  wiped  out  wi'  a  sponge.  Our  Davie 
isna  an  ordinar  lad;  he  can  be  trusted  where  the 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  175 

lave  would  need  a  watcher.  Ye  ken  that,  dea- 
con, for  he  is  your  ain  bringing  up." 

"  But,  Jenny,  ^2,000  for  his  share  o'  Hastie's 
mill !  Surely  ye  didna  encourage  the  lad  in  such 
an  idea?" 

"Oh,  sae  it's  money,"  thought  Jenny. 
"What  is  ^2,000  to  you,  deacon?  Why  should 
you  be  sparing  and  saving  money  to  die  wi'  ? 
The  lad  isna  a  fool." 

' '  I  dinna  approve  o'  the  partner  that  is  seek- 
ing him,  Jenny.  I  hae  heard  things  anent 
Robert  Leslie  that  I  dinna  approve  of;  far  from 
it." 

"  Hae  ye  seen  anything  wrong?" 

"  I  canna  say  I  hae." 

"Trust  to  your  eyes,  deacon;  they  believe 
themselves,  and  your  ears  believe  other  people; 
ye  ken  which  is  best.  His  father  was  a  decent 
body." 

"Ay,  ay;  but  Alexander  Leslie  was  different 
from  his  son  Robert.  He  was  a  canny,  cautious 
man,  who  could  ding  for  his  ain  side,  and  who 
always  stood  by  the  kirk.  Robert  left  Dr.  Mor- 
rison's soon  after  his  father  died.  The  doctor  was 
too  narrow  for  Robert  Leslie.  Robert  Leslie  has 
wonderfu'  broad  ideas  about  religion  now.  Jen- 
ny, I  dinna  like  the  men  who  are  their  ain  Bibles 
and  ministers." 


176  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"But  there  are  good  folk  outside  Dr.  Morri- 
son's kirk,  deacon,  surely." 

"We'll  trust  so,  surely,  we'll  trust  so,  Jenny; 
but  a  man  wi'  broad  notions  about  religion  soon 
gets  broad  notions  about  business  and  all  other 
things.  Why,  Jenny,  I  hae  heard  that  Robert 
Leslie  once  spoke  o'  the  house  o'  John  Callendar 
&  Co.  as  '  old  fogy ish  !'" 

"That's  no  hanging  matter,  deacon,  and  ye 
must  see  that  the  world  is  moving." 

"Maybe,  maybe;  but  I 'se  never  help  it  to 
move  except  in  the  safe,  narrow  road.  Ye  ken 
the  Garloch  mill-stream?  It  is  narrow  enough 
for  a  good  rider  to  leap,  but  it  is  deep,  and  it 
does  its  wark  weel  summer  and  winter.  They 
can  break  down  the  banks,  woman,  and  let  it 
spread  all  over  the  meadow;  bonnie  enough  it 
will  look,  but  the  mill-clapper  would  soon  stop. 
Now  there's  just  sae  much  power,  spiritual  or 
temporal,  in  any  man;  spread  it  out,  and  it  is 
shallow  and  no  to  be  depended  on  for  any  pur- 
pose whatever.  But  narrow  the  channel,  Jen- 
ny, narrow  the  channel,  and  it  is  a  driving 
force." 

"Ye  are  getting  awa  from  the  main  subject, 
deacon.  It  is  the  ^2,000,  and  ye  had  best  inak 
up  your  mind  to  gie  it  to  Davie.  Then  ye  can 
gang  awa  to  your  bed  and  tak  your  rest. ' ' 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  177 

"You  talk  like  a — like  a  woman.  It  is  easy 
to  gie  other  folks'  siller  awa.  I  hae  worked  for 
my  siller." 

"Your  siller,  deacon?  Ye  hae  naught  but  a 
life  use  o'  it.  Ye  canna  take  it  awa  wi'  ye.  Ye 
can  leave  it  to  the  ane  you  like  best,  but  that 
vera  person  may  scatter  it  to  the  four  corners  o' 
the  earth.  And  why  not?  Money  was  made 
round  that  it  might  roll.  It  is  little  good  yours 
is  doing  lying  in  the  Clyde  Trust." 

"Jenny  Callendar,  you  are  my  ain  cousin  four 
times  removed,  and  you  hae  a  kind  o'  right  to 
speak  your  mind  in  my  house;  but  you  hae  said 
enough,  woman.  It  isna  a  question  of  money 
only;  there  are  ither  things  troubling  me  mair 
than  that.  But  women  are  but  one-sided  arguers. 
Good-night  to  you." 

He  turned  to  the  fire  and  sat  down,  but  after  a 
lew  moments  of  the  same  restless,  confused  delib- 
eration, he  rose  and  went  to  his  Bible.  It  lay 
open  upon  its  stand,  and  John  put  his  hand  lov- 
ingly, reverently  upon  the  pages.  He  had  no 
glasses  on,  and  he  could  not  see  a  letter,  but  he 
did  not  need  to. 

11  It  is  my  Father's  word,"  he  whispered;  and, 
standing  humbly  before  it,  he  recalled  passage 
after  passage,  until  a  great  calm  fell  upon  him. 

Then  he  said, 

23 


178  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"I  will  lay  me  down  and  sleep  now;  maybe 
I  '11  see  clearer  in  the  morning  light." 

Almost  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  eyes  in  the 
morning  there  was  a  tap  at  his  door,  and  the  gay, 
strong  voice  he  loved  so  dearly  asked, 

"Can  I  come  in,  Uncle  John?" 

"  Come  in,  Davie." 

"Uncle,  I  was  wrong  last  night,  and  I 
cannot  be  happy  with  any  shadow  between  us 
two." 

Scotchmen  are  not  demonstrative,  and  John 
only  winked  his  eyes  and  straightened  out  his 
mouth;  but  the  grip  of  the  old  and  young  hand 
said  what  no  words  could  have  said  half  so  elo- 
quently. Then  the  old  man  remarked  in  a  busi- 
ness-like way, 

' '  I  hae  been  thinking,  Davie,  I  would  go  and 
look  o'er  Hastie's  affairs,  and  if  I  like  the  look  o' 
them  I'll  buy  the  whole  concern  out  for  you. 
Partners  are  kittle  cattle.  Ye  will  hae  to  bear 
their  shortcomings  as  well  as  your  ain.  Tak  my 
advice,  Davie;  rule  your  youth  well,  and  your 
age  will  rule  itsel'." 

"Uncle,  you  forget  that  Robert  Leslie  is  in 
treaty  with  Hastie.  It  would  be  the  height  of 
dishonor  to  interfere  with  his  bargain.  You  have 
always  told  me  never  to  put  my  finger  in  another 
man's  bargain.  Let  us  say  no  more  on  the  sub- 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  179 

ject.  I  have  another  plan  now.  If  it  succeeds, 
well  and  good;  if  not,  there  are  chances  behind 
this  one." 

John  fervently  hoped  there  would  be  no  more 
to  say  on  this  subject,  and  when  day  after  day 
went  by  without  any  reference  to  Hastie  or  Robert 
Leslie,  John  Callendar  felt  much  relieved.  David 
also  had  limited  himself  to  one  glass  of  toddy  at 
night,  and  this  unspoken  confession  and  reforma- 
tion was  a  great  consolation  to  the  old  man.  He 
said  to  himself  that  the  evil  he  dreaded  had  gone 
by  his  door,  and  he  was  rather  complacent  over 
the  bold  stand  he  had  taken. 

That  day,  as  he  was  slowly  walking  through 
the  Exchange,  pondering  a  proposal  for  Virginia 
goods,  Deacon  Strang  accosted  him.  "Callen- 
dar, a  good  day  to  ye;  I  congratulate  ye  on  the 
new  firm  o'  Callendar  &  Leslie.  They  are  brave 
lads,  and  like  enough — if  a'  goes  weel — to  do 
weel. ' ' 

John  did  not  allow  an  eyelash  to  betray  his 
surprise  and  chagrin.  "Ah,  Strang!"  he  an- 
swered, "the  Callendars  are  a  big  clan,  and  we 
are  a'  kin;  sae,  if  you  tak  to  congratulating  me 
on  every  Callendar  whose  name  ye  see  aboon  a 
doorstep,  you'll  hae  mair  business  on  hand  than 
you  '11  ken  how  to  manage.  A  good  day  to  you  !" 
But  Deacon  Callendar  went  up  Great  George 


ISO  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

street  that  day  with  a  heavy,  angry  heart.  His 
nephew  opened  the  door  for  him.  "  Uncle  John, 
I  have  been  looking  all  over  for  you.  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

"Fiddler's  news,  Davie.  I  hae  heard  it 
already.  Sae  you  hae  struck  hands  wi'  Robert 
Leslie  after  a',  eh?" 

"  He  had  my  promise,  uncle,  before  I  spoke  to 
you.  I  could  not  break  it." 

' '  H'  m  !    Where  did  you  get  the  £2, ooo  ?' ' 

"I  borrowed  it." 

' '  Then  I  hope  '  the  party '  looked  weel  into 
the  business." 

"They  did  not.  It  was  loaned  to  me  on  my 
simple  representation." 

"  '  Simple  representation  !'  Vera  simple  !  It 
was  some  woman,  dootless." 

"It  was  my  mother's  aunt,  Lady  Brith." 

' '  Ou,  ay  !  I  kent  it.  Weel,  when  a  bargain 
is  made,  wish  it  good  luck  ;  sae,  Jenny,  put  a 
partridge  before  the  fire,  and  bring  up  a  bottle  o' 
Madeira. ' ' 

It  was  not  however  a  lively  meal.  John  was 
too  proud  and  hurt  to  ask  for  information,  and 
David  too  much  chilled  by  his  reserve  to  volun- 
teer it.  The  wine,  being  an  unusual  beverage  to 
John,  made  him  sleepy;  and  when  David  said  he 
had  to  meet  Robert  Leslie  at  nine  o'clock,  John 


PACING   HIS   ENEMY.  l8l 

made  no  objection  and  no  remark.  But  when 
Jenny  came  in  to  cover  up  the  fire  for  the  night, 
she  found  him  sitting  before  it,  rubbing  his  hands 
in  a  very  unhappy  manner. 

"Cousin,"  he  said  fretfully,  "there  is  a  new 
firm  in  Glasgo'  to-day." 

' '  I  hae  heard  tell  o'  it.  God  send  it  pros- 
perity." 

"It  isna  likely,  Jenny;  auld  Lady  Brith's 
money  to  start  it !  The  godless  auld  woman  !  If 
Davie  taks  her  advice,  he 's  a  gane  lad." 

"Then,  deacon,  it's  your  ain  fault.  Whatna 
for  did  ye  not  gie  him  the  ^2,000?" 

"Just  hear  the  woman  !  It  taks  women  and 
lads  to  talk  o'  ^2,000  as  if  it  were  picked  up  on 
the  planestanes. " 

"If  ye  had  loaned  it,  deacon,  ye  would  hae 
had  the  right  to  spier  into  things,  and  gie  the  lad 
advice.  He  maun  tak  his  advice  where  he  taks 
his  money.  Ye  flung  that  chance  o'  guiding 
Davie  to  the  four  winds.  And  let  me  tell  ye, 
Cousin  Callendar,  ye  hae  far  too  tight  a  grip  on 
this  warld's  goods.  The  money  is  only  loaned  to 
you  to  put  out  at  interest  for  the  Master.  It  ought 
to  be  building  kirks  and  schoolhouses,  and  send- 
ing Bibles  to  the  far  ends  o'  the  earth.  When 
you  are  asked  what  ye  did  wi'  it,  how  will  you 
like  to  answer,  '  I  hid  it  safely  awa,  L,ord,  in 


182  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

the    Clyde    Trust    and    in    Andrew    Fleming's 
bank!'" 

"That  will  do,  woman.  Now  you  hae  made 
me  dissatisfied  wi'  my  guiding  o'  Davie,  and 
meeserable  anent  my  bank  account,  ye  may  gang 
to  your  bed;  you'll  doobtless  sleep  weel  on  the 
thought." 


FACING   HIS    ENEMY.  183 


CHAPTER  III. 

HOWEVER,  sometimes  things  are  not  so  ill  as 
they  look.  The  new  firm  obtained  favor,  and 
even  old,  cautious  men  began  to  do  a  little  busi- 
ness with  it.  For  Robert  introduced  some  new 
machinery,  and  the  work  it  did  was  allowed,  after 
considerable  suspicion,  to  be  "  vera  satisfactory." 
A  sudden  emergency  had  also  discovered  to  David 
that  he  possessed  singularly  original  ideas  in  de- 
signing patterns;  and  he  set  himself  with  enthu- 
siasm to  that  part  of  the  business.  Two  years 
afterwards  came  the  Great  Pair  of  1851,  and  Cal- 
lendar  &  Leslie  took  a  first  prize  for  their  rugs, 
both  design  and  workmanship  being  honorably 
mentioned. 

Their  success  seemed  now  assured.  Orders 
came  in  so  fast  that  the  mill  worked  day  and 
night  to  fill  them  ;  and  David  was  so  gay  and 
happy  that  John  could  hardly  help  rejoicing  with 
him.  Indeed,  he  was  very  proud  of  his  nephew, 
and  even  inclined  to  give  Robert  a  little  cautious 
kindness.  The  winter  of  1851  was  a  very  pros- 
perous one,  but  the  spring  brought  an  unlooked- 
for  change. 


184  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

One  evening  David  came  home  to  dinner  in  a 
mood  which  Jenny  characterized  as  "  thrawart.'1'1 
He  barely  answered  her  greeting,  and  shut  his 
room-door  with  a  bang.  He  did  not  want  any 
dinner,  and  he  wanted  to  be  let  alone.  John 
looked  troubled  at  this  behavior.  Jenny  said, 
"It  is  some  lass  in  the  matter ;  naething  else 
could  mak  a  sensible  lad  like  Davie  act  sae  child- 
like and  silly. "  And  Jennie  was  right.  Towards 
nine  o'clock  David  came  to  the  parlor  and  sat 
down  beside  his  uncle.  He  said  he  had  been 
4 '  greatly  annoyed. ' ' 

"Annoyances  are  as  certain  as  the  multiplica- 
tion table,"  John  remarked  quietly,  "and  ye 
ought  to  expect  them — all  the  mair  after  a  long 
run  o'  prosperity." 

"But  no  man  likes  to  be  refused  by  the  girl 
he  loves. ' ' 

"Eh?  Refused,  say  ye?  Wha  has  refused 
you?" 

"  Isabel  Strang.  I  have  loved  her,  as  you  and 
Jenny  know,  since  we  went  to  school  together, 
and  I  was  sure  that  she  loved  me.  Two  days  ago 
I  had  some  business  with  Deacon  Strang,  and 
when  it  was  finished  I  spoke  to  him  anent  Isabel. 
He  made  me  no  answer  then,  one  way  or  the 
other,  but  told  me  he  would  have  a  talk  with  Isa- 
bel, and  I  might  call  on  him  this  afternoon. 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  185 

When  I  did  so  he  said  he  felt  obligated  to  refuse 
my  offer. ' ' 
"Weel?" 
"That  is  all." 

"  Nonsense  !  Hae  you  seen  Isabel  hersel'  ?" 
"  She  went  to  Edinburgh  last  night." 
"And  if  you  were  your  uncle,  lad,  you  would 
hae  been  in  Edinburgh  too  by  this  time.  Your 
uncle  would  not  stay  refused  twenty-four  hours,  if 
he  thought  the  lass  loved  him.  Tut,  tut,  you 
ought  to  hae  left  at  once;  that  would  hae  been 
mair  like  a  Callendar  than  ganging  to  your  ain 
room  to  sit  out  a  scorning.  There  is  a  train  at 
ten  o'clock  to-night;  you  hae  time  to  catch  it  if 
ye  dinna  lose  a  minute,  and  if  you  come  back  wi' 
Mrs.  David  Callendar,  I  '11  gie  her  a  warm  wel- 
come for  your  sake." 

The  old  man's  face  was  aglow,  and  in  his  ex- 
citement he  had  risen  to  his  feet  with  the  very  air 
of  one  whom  no  circumstances  could  depress  or 
embarrass.  David  caught  his  mood  and  his  sug- 
gestion, and  in  five  minutes  he  was  on  his  way  to 
the  railway  depot  The  thing  was  done  so  quick- 
ly that  reflection  had  formed  no  part  of  it.  But 
when  Jenny  heard  the  front-door  clash  impatient- 
ly after  David,  she  surmised  some  imprudence, 
and  hastened  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  John 

told  her  the  "affront"  David  had  received,  and 

24 


186  SCOTTISH   SKETCHKS. 

looked  eagerly  into  the  strong,  kindly  face  for  an 
assurance  that  he  had  acted  with  becoming 
promptitude  and  sympathy.  Jenny  shook  her 
head  gravely,  and  regarded  the  deacon  with  a 
look  of  pitying  disapproval.  "To  think,"  she 
said,  "of  twa  men  trying  to  sort  a  love  affair, 
when  there  was  a  woman  within  call  to  seek 
counsel  oV 

' '  But  we  couldna  hae  done  better,  Jenny. ' ' 
"Ye  couldna  hae  done  warse,  deacon.  Once 
the  lad  asked  ye  for  money,  and  ye  wouldna  trust 
him  wi'  it;  and  now  ye  are  in  sic  a  hurry  to  send 
him  after  a  wife  that  he  maun  neither  eat  nor 
sleep.  Ye  ken  which  is  the  maist  dangerous. 
And  you,  wi'  a'  your  years,  to  play  into  auld 
Strang's  hand  sae  glibly  !  Deacon,  ye  hae  made  a 
nice  mess  o'  it.  Dinna  ye  see  that  Strang  knew 
you  twa  fiery  Hielandmen  would  never  tak  '  No, ' 
and  he  sent  Isabel  awa  on  purpose  for  our  Davie 
to  run  after  her.  He  kens  weel  they  will  be  sure 
to  marry,  but  he'll  say  now  that  his  daughter 
disobeyed  him;  sae  he'll  get  off  giving  her  a 
bawbee  o'  her  fortune,  and  he'll  save  a'  the  plen- 
ishing and  the  wedding  expenses.  Deacon,  I  'in 
ashamed  o'  you.  Sending  a  love-sick  lad  on  sic 
a  fool's  errand.  And  mair,  I  'm  not  going  to  hae 
Isabel  Strang,  or  Isabel  Callendar  here.  A  young 
woman  wi'  bridish  ways  dawdling  about  the 


FACING  HIS  EN£MY.  187 

house,  I  canna,  and  I  willna  stand.  You  '11  liae 
to  choose  atween  Deacon  Strang's  daughter  and 
your  auld  cousin,  Jenny  Callendar." 

John  had  no  answer  ready,  and  indeed  Jenny 
gave  him  no  time  to  make  one;  she  went  off  with 
a  sob  in  her  voice,  and  left  the  impulsive  old 
matchmaker  very  unhappy  indeed.  For  he  had 
an  unmitigated  sense  of  having  acted  most  impru- 
dently, and  moreover,  a  shrewd  suspicion  that 
Jenny's  analysis  of  Deacon  Strang's  tactics  was  a 
correct  one.  For  the  first  time  in  many  a  year,  a 
great  tide  of  hot,  passionate  anger  swept  away 
every  other  feeling.  He  longed  to  meet  Strang 
face  to  face,  and  with  an  hereditary  and  quite 
involuntary  instinct  he  put  his  hand  to  the  place 
where  his  forefathers  had  always  carried  their 
dirks.  The  action  terrified  and  partly  calmed 
him.  "My  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "forgive  thy 
servant.  I  hae  been  guilty  in  my  heart  o'  mur- 
der." 

He  was  very  penitent,  but  still,  as  he  mused 
the  fire  burned;  and  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings 
in  odd,  disjointed  sentences  thrown  up  from  the 
very  bottom  of  his  heart,  as  lava  is  thrown  up 
by  the  irrepressible  eruption:  u  Wha  shall  deliver 
a  man  from  his  ancestors?  Black  Evan  Callen- 
dar was  never  much  nearer  murder  than  I  hae 
been  this  night,  only  for  the  grace  of  God,  which 


l88  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

put  the  temptation  and  the  opportunity  sae  far 
apart.  I'll  hae  Strang  under  my  thumb  yet. 
God  forgie  me !  what  hae  I  got  to  do  \vi'  sorting 
my  ain  wrongs?  What  for  couldna  Davie  like 
some  other  lass?  It's  as  easy  to  graft  on  a  good 
stock  as  an  ill  one.  I  doobt  I  hae  done  wrong. 
I  am  in  a  sair  s wither.  The  righteous  dinna 
always  see  the  right  way.  I  maun  e'en  to  my 
Psalms  again.  It  is  a  wonderfu'  comfort  that 
King  David  was  just  a  weak,  sinfu'  mortal  like 
mysel'."  So  he  went  again  to  those  pathetic, 
self-accusing  laments  of  the  royal  singer,  and 
found  in  them,  as  he  always  had  done,  words  for 
all  the  great  depths  of  his  sin  and  fear,  his  hopes 
and  his  faith. 

In  the  morning  one  thing  was  clear  to  him; 
David  must  have  his  own  house  now — David 
must  leave  him.  He  could  not  help  but  acknowl- 
edge that  he  helped  on  this  consummation,  and  it 
was  with  something  of  the  feeling  of  a  man  doing 
a  just  penance  that  he  went  to  look  at  a  furnished 
house,  whose  owner  was  going  to  the  south  of 
France  with  a  sick  daughter.  The  place  was 
pretty,  and  handsomely  furnished,  and  John  paid 
down  the  year's  rent.  So  when  David  returned 
with  his  young  bride,  he  assumed  at  once  the 
dignity  and  the  cares  of  a  householder. 

Jenny  was  much  offended  at  the  marriage  of 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  189 

David.  She  had  looked  forward  to  this  event 
as  desirable  and  probable,  but  she  supposed  it 
would  have  come  with  solemn  religious  rites  and 
domestic  feasting,  and.  with  a  great  gathering  in 
Blytheswood  Square  of  all  the  Callendar  clan. 
That  it  had  been  "a  wedding  in  a  corner,"  as 
she  contemptuously  called  it,  was  a  great  disap- 
pointment to  her.  But,  woman-like,  she  visited 
it  on  her  own  sex.  It  was  all  Isabel's  fault,  and 
from  the  very  first  day  of  the  return  of  the  new 
couple  she  assumed  an  air  of  commiseration  for 
the  young  husband,  and  always  spoke  of  him  as 
4 '  poor  Davie. ' ' 

This  annoyed  John,  and  after  his  visits  to 
David's  house  he  was  perhaps  unnecessarily  elo- 
quent concerning  the  happiness  of  the  young  peo- 
ple. Jenny  received  all  such  information  with  a 
dissenting  silence.  She  always  spoke  of  Isabel 
as  "Mistress  David,"  and  when  John  reminded 
her  that  David's  wife  was  "Mistress  Callendar," 
she  said,  "It  was  weel  kent  that  there  were  plen- 
ty o'  folk  called  Callendar  that  werna  Callendars 
for  a'  that."  And  it  soon  became  evident  to  her 
womanly  keen-sightedness  that  John  did  not  al- 
ways return  from  his  visits  to  David  and  Isabel 
in  the  most  happy  of  humors.  He  was  frequent- 
ly too  silent  and  thoughtful  for  a  perfectly  satis- 
fied man;  but  whatever  his  fears  were,  he  kept 


190  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

them  in  his  own  bosom.  They  were  evidently 
as  yet  so  light  that  hope  frequently  banished  them 
altogether;  and  when  at  length  David  had  a  son 
and  called  it  after  his  uncle,  the  old  man  enjoyed 
a  real  springtime  of  renewed  youth  and  pleasure. 
Jenny  was  partly  reconciled  also,  for  the  happy 
parents  treated  her  with  special  attention,  and 
she  began  to  feel  that  perhaps  David's  marriage 
might  turn  out  better  than  she  had  looked  for. 

Two  years  after  this  event  Deacon  Strang  be- 
came reconciled  to  his  daughter,  and  as  a  proof  of 
it  gave  her  a  large  mansion  situated  in  the  rap- 
idly-growing "West  End."  It  had  come  into  his 
possession  at  a  bargain  in  some  of  the  mysterious 
ways  of  his  trade ;  but  it  was,  by  the  very  rea- 
son of  its  great  size,  quite  unsuitable  for  a  young 
manufacturer  like  David.  Indeed,  it  proved  to 
be  a  most  unfortunate  gift  in  many  ways. 

"  It  will  cost  ^5,000  to  furnish  it,"  said  John 
fretfully,  "and  that  Davie  can  ill  afford — few 
men  could;  but  Isabel  has  set  her  heart  on  it." 

"And  she'll  hae  her  will,  deacon.  Ye  could 
put  ^5,000  in  the  business  though,  or  ye  could 
furnish  for  them." 

"My  way  o'  furnishing  wouldna  suit  them; 
and  as  for  putting  back  money  that  David  is  set 
on  wasting,  I  '11  no  do  it.  It  is  a  poor  well,  Jen- 
ny, into  which  you  must  put  water.  If  David's 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  191 

business  wont  stand  his  drafts  on  it,  the  sooner  he 
finds  it  out  the  better." 

So  the  fine  house  was  finely  furnished;  but 
that  was  only  the  beginning  of  expenses.  Isabel 
now  wanted  dress  to  suit  her  new  surroundings, 
and  servants  to  keep  the  numerous  rooms  clean. 
Then  she  wanted  all  her  friends  and  acquaintan- 
ces to  see  her  splendid  belongings,  so  that  ere- 
long David  found  his  home  turned  into  a  fashion- 
able gathering-place.  Lunches,  dinners,  and  balls 
followed  each  other  quickly,  and  the  result  of  all 
this  visiting  was  that  Isabel  had  long  lists  of  calls 
to  make  every  day,  and  that  she  finally  persuaded 
David  that  it  would  be  cheaper  to  buy  their  own 
carriage  than  to  pay  so  much  hire  to  livery- 
stables. 

These  changes  did  not  take  place  all  at  once, 
nor  without  much  disputing.  John  Callendar 
opposed  every  one  of  them  step  by  step  till  oppo- 
sition was  useless.  David  only  submitted  to  them 
in  order  to  purchase  for  himself  a  delusive  peace 
during  the  few  hours  he  could  afford  to  be  in  his 
fine  home;  for  his  increased  expenditure  was  not 
a  thing  he  could  bear  lightly.  Every  extra  hun- 
dred pounds  involved  extra  planning  and  work 
and  risks.  He  gradually  lost  all  the  cheerful 
buoyancy  of  manner  and  the  brightness  of  coun- 
tenance that  had  been  always  part  and  parcel  of 


SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

David  Callendar.  A  look  of  care  and  weariness 
was  on  his  face,  and  his  habits  and  hours  lost  all 
their  former  regularity.  It  had  once  been  possi- 
ble to  tell  the  time  of  day  by  the  return  home  of 
the  two  Callendars.  Now  no  one  could  have 
done  that  with  David.  He  stayed  out  late  at 
night;  he  stayed  out  all  night  long.  He  told 
Isabel  the  mill  needed  him,  and  she  either  be- 
lieved him  or  pretended  to  do  so. 

So  that  after  the  first  winter  of  her  fashiona- 
ble existence  she  generally  "entertained"  alone. 
"Mr.  Callendar  had  gone  to  Stirling,  or  up  to 
the  Highlands  to  buy  wool,"  or,  "  he  was  so  busy 
money-making  she  could  not  get  him  to  recognize 
the  claims  of  society."  And  society  cared  not  a 
pin's  point  whether  he  presided  or  not  at  the  ex- 
pensive entertainments  given  in  his  name. 


FACING  HIS   ENEMY.  193 


CHAPTER   IV. 

BUT  things  did  not  come  to  this  pass  all  at 
once ;  few  men  take  the  steps  towards  ruin  so  rap- 
idly as  to  be  themselves  alarmed  by  it.  It  was 
nearly  seven  years  after  his  marriage  when  the 
fact  that  he  was  in  dangerously  embarrassed  cir- 
cumstances forced  itself  suddenly  on  David's 
mind.  I  say  "  suddenly  "  here,  because  the  con- 
summation of  evil  that  has  been  long  preparing 
comes  at  last  in  a  moment;  a  string  holding  a 
picture  gets  weaker  and  weaker  through  weeks 
of  tension,  and  then  breaks.  A  calamity  through 
nights  and  days  moves  slowly  towards  us  step  by 
step,  and  then  some  hour  it  has  come.  So  it  was 
with  David's  business.  It  had  often  lately  been 
in  tight  places,  but  something  had  always  hap- 
pened to  relieve  him.  One  day,  however,  there 
was  absolutely  no  relief  but  in  borrowing  money, 
and  David  went  to  his  uncle  again. 

It  was  a  painful  thing  for  him  to  do;  not  that 
they  had  any  quarrel,  though  sometimes  David 
thought  a  quarrel  would  be  better  than  the  scant 
and  almost  sad  intercourse  their  once  tender  love 
had  fallen  into.  By  some  strange  mental  sympa- 
thy, hardly  sufficiently  recognized  by  us,  John 
25 


194  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

was  thinking  of  his  nephew  when  he  entered. 
He  greeted  him  kindly,  and  pulled  a  chair  close, 
so  that  David  might  sit  beside  him.  He  listened 
sympathizingly  to  his  cares,  and  looked  mourn- 
fully into  the  unhappy  face  so  dear  to  him ;  then 
he  took  his  bank-book  and  wrote  out  a  check  for 
double  the  amount  asked. 

The  young  man  was  astonished ;  the  tears 
sprang  to  his  eyes,  and  he  said,  ' '  Uncle,  this  is 
very  good  of  you.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how 
grateful  I  am." 

' '  Davie,  sit  a  moment,  you  dear  lad.  I  hae 
a  word  to  say  to  ye.  I  hear  tell  that  my  lad  is 
drinking  far  mair  than  is  good  either  for  himsel' 
or  his  business.  My  lad,  I  care  little  for  the  busi- 
ness; let  it  go,  if  its  anxieties  are  driving  thee  to 
whiskey.  David,  remember  what  thou  accused 
me  of,  yonder  night,  when  this  weary  mill  was 
first  spoken  of;  and  then  think  how  I  suffer  every 
time  I  hear  tell  o'  thee  being  the  warse  o'  liquor. 
And  Jenny  is  greeting  her  heart  out  about  thee. 
And  there  is  thy  sick  wife,  and  three  bonnie  bit 
bairns." 

"Did  Isabel  tell  you  this?" 

"How  can  she  help  complaining?  She  is 
vera  ill,  and  she  sees  little  o'  thee,  David,  she 


says." 


"Yes,  she  is  ill.     She  took  cold  at  Provost 


FACING   HIS    ENEMY.  195 

Allison's  ball,  and  she  has  d wined  away  ever 
since.  That  is  true.  And  the  house  is  neglect- 
ed, and  the  servants  do  their  own  will  both  with 
it  and  the  poor  children.  I  have  been  very 
wretched,  Uncle  John,  lately,  and  I  am  afraid  I 
have  drunk  more  than  I  ought  to  have  done. 
Robert  and  I  do  not  hit  together  as  we  used  to; 
he  is  always  fault-finding,  and  ever  since  that 
visit  from  his  cousin  who  is  settled  in  America  he 
has  been  dissatisfied  and  heartless.  His  cousin 
has  made  himself  a  rich  man  in  ten  years  there; 
and  Robert  says  we  shall  ne'er  make  money  here 
till  we  are  too  old  to  enjoy  it." 

' '  I  heard  tell,  too,  that  Robert  has  been  spec- 
ulating in  railway  stock.  Such  reports,  true  or 
false,  hurt  you,  David.  Prudent  men  dinna  like 
to  trust  speculators. ' ' 

"  I  think  the  report  is  true;  but  then  it  is  out 
of  his  private  savings  he  speculates." 

' '  Davie,  gie  me  your  word  that  you  wont 
touch  a  drop  o'  whiskey  for  a  week — just  for  a 
week. ' ' 

' '  I  cannot  do  it,  uncle.  I  should  be  sure  to 
break  it.  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  a  lie." 

"  O  Davie,  Davie  !     Will  you  try,  then  ?" 

"I'll  try,  uncle.  Ask  Jenny  to  go  and  see 
the  children." 

"'Deed  she  shall  go;  she'll  be  fain  to  do  it. 


196  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Let  them  come  and  stay  wi'  me  till  their  mother 
is  mair  able  to  look  after  them." 

Jenny  heard  the  story  that  night  with  a  dour 
face.  She  could  have  said  some  very  bitter  things 
about  Deacon  Strang's  daughter,  but  in  consider- 
ation of  her  sickness  she  forbore.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  went  to  David's  house  and  had  a  talk  with 
Isabel.  The  poor  woman  \vas  so  ill  that  Jenny 
had  no  heart  to  scold  her;  she  only  gave  the  house 
"a  good  sorting,"  did  what  she  could  for  Isabel's 
comfort,  and  took  back  with  her  the  children  and 
their  nurse.  It  was  at  her  suggestion  John  saw 
David  the  next  day,  and  offered  to  send  Isabel  to 
the  mild  climate  of  Devonshire.  "  She  '11  die  if 
she  stays  in  Glasgo'  through  the  winter,"  he 
urged,  and  David  consented.  Then,  as  David 
could  not  leave  his  business,  John  himself  took 
the  poor  woman  to  Torbay,  and  no  one  but  she 
and  God  ever  knew  how  tenderly  he  cared  for  her, 
and  how  solemnly  he  tried  to  prepare  her  for  the 
great  change  he  saw  approaching.  She  had  not 
thought  of  death  before,  but  when  they  parted  he 
knew  she  had  understood  him,  for  weeping  bit- 
terly, she  said,  "You  will  take  care  of  the  chil- 
dren, Uncle  John?  I  fear  I  shall  see  them  no 
more." 

"I  will,  Isabel.     While  I  live  I  will." 

"  And,  O  uncle,  poor  David  !   I  have  not  been 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  197 

a  good  wife  to  him.  Whatever  happens,  think  of 
that  and  judge  him  mercifully.  It  is  my  fault, 
uncle,  my  fault,  my  fault !  God  forgive  me  !" 

' '  Nae,  nae,  lassie ;  I  am  far  from  innocent 
mysel';"  and  with  these  mournful  accusations 
they  parted  for  ever. 

For  Isabel's  sickness  suddenly  assumed  an 
alarming  character,  and  her  dissolution  was  so 
rapid  that  John  had  scarcely  got  back  to  Glasgow 
ere  David  was  sent  for  to  see  his  wife  die.  He 
came  back  a  bereaved  and  very  wretched  man ; 
the  great  house  was  dismantled  and  sold,  and  he 
went  home  once  more  to  Blytheswood  Square. 

But  he  could  not  go  back  to  his  old  innocent 
life  and  self;  and  the  change  only  revealed  to 
John  how  terribly  far  astray  his  nephew  had  gone. 
And  even  Isabel's  death  had  no  reforming  influ- 
ence on  him  ;  it  only  roused  regrets  and  self-re- 
proaches, which  made  liquor  all  the  more  neces- 
sary to  him.  Then  the  breaking  up  of  the  house 
entailed  much  bargain-making,  all  of  which  was 
unfortunately  cemented  with  glasses  of  whiskey 
toddy.  Still  his  uncle  had  some  new  element  of 
hope  on  which  to  work.  David's  home  was  now 
near  enough  to  his  place  of  business  to  afford  no 
excuse  for  remaining  away  all  night.  The  chil- 
dren were  not  to  be  hid  away  in  some  upper  room ; 
John  was  determined  they  should  be  at  the  table 


198  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

and  oil  the  hearthstone ;  and  surely  their  father 
would  respect  their  innocence  and  keep  himself 
sober  for  their  sakes. 

"It  is  the  highest  earthly  motive  I  can  gie 
him,"  argued  the  anxious  old  man,  "and  he  has 
aye  had  grace  enough  to  keep  out  o'  my  sight 
when  he  wasna  himsel' ;  he  '11  ne'er  let  wee  John 
and  Flora  and  Davie  see  him  when  the  whiskey 
is  aboon  the  will  and  the  wit — that 's  no  to  be 
believed." 

And  for  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  John's  tactics 
would  prevail.  There  were  many  evenings  when 
they  were  very  happy.  The  children  made  so 
gay  the  quiet  old  parlor,  and  David  learning  to 
know  his  own  boys  and  girl,  was  astonished  at 
their  childish  beauty  and  intelligence.  Often 
John  could  not  bear  to  break  up  the  pleasant 
evening  time,  and  David  and  he  would  sit  softly 
talking  in  the  firelight,  with  little  John  musing 
quietly  between  them,  and  Flora  asleep  on  her 
uncle's  lap.  Then  Jenny  would  come  gently  in 
and  out  and  say  tenderly,  "  Hadna  the  bairns  bet- 
ter come  awa  to  their  beds?"  and  the  old  man 
would  answer,  "Bide  a  bit,  Jenny, woman,"  for 
he  thought  every  such  hour  was  building  up  a 
counter  influence  against  the  snare  of  strong 
drink. 

But  there  is  no  voice  in  human  nature  that 


FACING  HIS   ENEMY.  199 

can  say  authoritatively,  "Return!"  David  felt 
all  the  sweet  influences  with  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded, but,  it  must  be  admitted,  they  were 
sometimes  an  irritation  to  him.  His  business 
troubles,  and  his  disagreements  with  his  partner, 
were  increasing  rapidly ;  for  Robert — whose  hopes 
were  set  on  America — was  urging  him  to  close  the 
mill  before  their  liabilities  were  any  larger.  He 
refused  to  believe  longer  in  the  future  making 
good  what  they  had  lost;  and  certainly  it  was  up- 
hill work  for  David  to  struggle  against  accumula- 
ting bills,  and  a  partner  whose  heart  was  not  with 
him. 

One  night  at  the  close  of  the  year,  David  did 
not  come  home  to  dinner,  and  John  and  the  chil- 
dren ate  it  alone.  He  was  very  anxious,  and  he 
had  not  much  heart  to  talk;  but  he  kept  the  two 
eldest  with  him  until  little  Flora's  head  dropped, 
heavy  with  sleep,  on  his  breast.  Then  a  sudden 
thought  seemed  to  strike  him,  and  he  sent  them, 
almost  hurriedly,  away.  He  had  scarcely  done 
so  when  there  was  a  shuffling  noise  in  the  hall, 
the  parlor-door  was  flung  open  with  a  jar,  and 
David  staggered  towards  him — drunk  ! 

In  a  moment,  John's  natural  temper  conquered 
him;  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  said  passionately, 
1 '  How  daur  ye,  sir  ?  Get  out  o'  my  house,  you 
sinfu'  lad!"  Then,  with  a  great  cry  he  smote 


200  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

his  hands  together  and  bowed  his  head  upon 
them,  weeping  slow,  heavy  drops,  that  came  each 
with  a  separate  pang.  His  agony  touched  David, 
though  he  scarcely  comprehended  it.  Not  all  at 
once  is  the  tender  conscience  seared,  and  the  ten- 
der heart  hardened. 

"Uncle,"  he  said  in  a  maudlin,  hesitating 
way,  which  it  would  be  a  sin  to  imitate — "Uncle 
John,  I'm  not  drunk,  I'm  in  trouble;  I'm  in 
trouble,  Uncle  John.  Do  n't  cry  about  me.  I'm 
not  worth  it." 

Then  he  sank  down  upon  the  sofa,  and,  after 
a  few  more  incoherent  apologies,  dropped  into  a 
deep  sleep. 


FACING   HIS   ENEMY.  2OI 


CHAPTER   V. 

JOHN  sat  and  looked  at  his  fallen  idol  with  a 
vacant,  tear-stained  face.  He  tried  to  pray  a  few 
words  at  intervals,  but  he  was  not  yet  able  to 
gird  up  his  soul  and  wrestle  with  this  grief. 
When  Jenny  came  in  she  was  shocked  at  the 
gray,  wretched  look  with  which  her  master  point- 
ed to  the  shameful  figure  on  the  sofa.  Neverthe- 
less, she  went  gently  to  it,  raised  the  fallen  head 
to  the  pillow,  and  then  went  and  got  a  blanket  to 
cover  the  sleeper,  muttering, 

"Poor  fellow!  There's  nae  need  to  let  him 
get  a  pleurisy,  ony  gate.  Whatna  for  did  ye  no 
tell  me,  deacon  ?  Then  I  could  hae  made  him  a 
cup  o'  warm  tea." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  was  angry,  not  at  David, 
but  at  John;  and,  though  it  was  only  the  natural 
instinct  of  a  woman  defending  what  she  dearly 
loved,  John  gave  it  a  different  meaning,  and  it 
added  to  his  suffering. 

"You  are  right,  Jenny,  woman,"  he  said 
humbly,  "  it  is  my  fault.  I  mixed  his  first  glass 
for  him. ' ' 

"Vera  weel.      Somebody  aye  mixes  the  first 
26 


202  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

glass.  Somebody  mixed  your  first  glass.  That 
is  a  bygane,  and  there  is  nae  use  at  a'  speiring 
after  it.  How  is  the  lad  to  be  saved  ?  That  is 
the  question  now. ' ' 

UO  Jenny,  then  you  dare  to  hope  for  his  sal- 
vation?" 

"  I  would  think  it  far  mair  sinfu'  to  despair  o' 
it.  The  Father  has  twa  kinds  o'  sons,  deacon. 
Ye  are  ane  like  the  elder  brother;  ye  hae  'served 
him  many  years  and  transgressed  not  at  any  time 
his  commandment ;'  but  this  dear  lad  is  his 
younger  son — still  his  son,  mind  ye — and  he'll 
win  hame  again  to  his  Father's  house.  What  for 
not?  He's  the  bairn  o'  many  prayers.  Gae  awa 
to  your  ain  room,  deacon;  I'll  keep  the  watch  wi' 
him.  He'd  rather  see  me  nor  you  when  he 
comes  to  himsel'." 

Alas  !  the  watch  begun  that  night  was  one 
Jenny  had  very  often  to  keep  afterwards.  David's 
troubles  gathered  closer  and  closer  round  him, 
and  the  more  trouble  he  had  the  deeper  he  drank. 
Within  a  month  after  that  first  shameful  home- 
coming the  firm  of  Callendar  &  Leslie  went  into 
sequestration.  John  felt  the  humiliation  of  this 
downcome  in  a  far  keener  way  than  David  did. 
His  own  business  record  was  a  stainless  one ;  his 
word  was  as  good  as  gold  on  Glasgow  Exchange  •, 
the  house  of  John  Callendar  &  Co.  was  synony- 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  203 

inous  with  commercial  integrity.  The  prudent 
burghers  who  were  his  nephew's  creditors  were 
far  from  satisfied  with  the  risks  David  and  Rob- 
ert Leslie  had  taken,  and  they  did  not  scruple  to 
call  them  by  words  which  hurt  John  Callendar's 
honor  like  a  sword-thrust.  He  did  not  doubt 
that  many  blamed  him  for  not  interfering  in  his 
nephew's  extravagant  business  methods;  and  he 
could  not  explain  to  these  people  how  peculiarly 
he  was  situated  with  regard  to  David's  affairs; 
nor,  indeed,  would  many  of  them  have  under- 
stood the  fine  delicacy  which  had  dictated  John's 
course. 

It  was  a  wretched  summer  every  way.  The 
accountant  who  had  charge  of  David's  affairs  was 
in  no  hurry  to  close  up  a  profitable  engagement, 
and  the  creditors,  having  once  accepted  the  prob- 
able loss,  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  deny 
themselves  their  seaside  or  Highland  trips  to  at- 
tend meetings  relating  to  Callendar  &  Leslie.  So 
there  was  little  progress  made  in  the  settlement  of 
affairs  all  summer,  and  David  was  literally  out  of 
employment.  His  uncle's  and  his  children's  pres- 
ence was  a  reproach  to  him,  and  Robert  and  he 
only  irritated  each  other  with  mutual  reproaches. 
Before  autumn  brought  back  manufacturers  and 
merchants  to  their  factories  and  offices  David  had 
sunk  still  lower.  He  did  not  come  home  any 


204  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

more  when  he  felt  that  he  had  drunk  too  much. 
He  had  found  out  houses  where  such  a  condition 
was  the  natural  and  the  most  acceptable  one — 
houses  whose  doors  are  near  to  the  gates  of  hell. 

This  knowledge  shocked  John  inexpressibly, 
and  in  the  depth  of  his  horror  and  grief  he  craved 
some  human  sympathy. 

"  I  must  go  and  see  Dr.  Morrison,"  he  said  one 
night  to  Jenny. 

"And  you'll  do  right,  deacon;  the  grip  o'  his 
hand  and  the  shining  o'  his  eyes  in  yours  will  do 
you  good;  forbye,  you  ken  weel  you  arena  fit  to 
guide  yoursel',  let  alane  Davie.  You  are  too 
angry,  and  angry  men  tell  many  a  lie  to  them- 
sel's." 

There  is  often  something  luminous  in  the  face 
of  a  good  man,  and  Dr.  Morrison  had  this  peculi- 
arity in  a  remarkable  degree.  His  face  seemed  to 
radiate  light;  moreover,  he  was  a  man  anointed 
with  the  oil  of  gladness  above  his  fellows,  and 
John  no  sooner  felt  the  glow  of  that  radiant  coun- 
tenance on  him  than  his  heart  leaped  up  to  wel- 
come it. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  choking  back  his  sorrow, 
"doctor,  I  'm  fain  to  see  you." 

"John,  sit  down.     What  is  it,  John  ?" 

"It's  David,  minister." 

And  then  John  slowly,  and  weighing  every 


FACING   HIS   ENEMY.  305 

word  so  as  to  be  sure  he  neither  over-stated  nor 
under-stated  the  case,  opened  up  his  whole  heart's 
sorrow. 

"  I  hae  suffered  deeply,  minister;  I  didna  think 
life  could  be  such  a  tragedy." 

"A  tragedy  indeed,  John,  but  a  tragedy  with 
an  angel  audience.  Think  of  that.  Paul  says 
'  we  are  a  spectacle  unto  men  and  angels. '  Mind 
how  you  play  your  part.  What  is  David  doing 
now?" 

''Nothing.     His  affairs  are  still  unsettled." 

' '  But  that  wont  do,  John.  Men  learn  to  do  ill 
by  doing  what  is  next  to  it — nothing.  Without 
some  duty  life  cannot  hold  itself  erect.  If  a  man 
has  no  regular  calling  he  is  an  unhappy  man  and 
a  cross  man,  and  I  think  prayers  should  be  offered 
up  for  his  wife  and  children  and  a'  who  have  to 
live  with  him.  Take  David  into  your  own  em- 
ploy at  once. ' ' 

' '  O  minister,  that  I  canna  do  !  My  office  has 
aye  had  God-fearing,  steady  men  in  it,  and  I  can- 
na, and — " 

' ' '  And  that  day  Jesus  was  guest  in  the  house 
of  a  man  that  was  a  sinner.'  John,  can't  you 
take  a  sinner  as  a  servant  into  your  office?" 

"I'll  try  it,  minister." 

"  And,  John,  it  will  be  a  hard  thing  to  do,  but 
you  must  watch  David  constantly.  You  must 


206  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

follow  him  to  his  drinking-haunts  and  take  him 
home;  if  need  be,  you  must  follow  him  to  warse 
places  and  take  him  home.  You  must  watch  him 
as  if  all  depended  on  your  vigilance,  and  you 
must  pray  for  him  as  if  nothing  depended  on  it. 
You  hae  to  conquer  on  your  knees  before  you  go 
into  the  world  to  fight  your  battle,  John.  But 
think,  man,  what  a  warfare  is  set  before  you — the 
saving  of  an  immortal  soul !  And  I'm  your  friend 
and  helper  in  the  matter ;  the  lad  is  one  o'  my 
stray  lambs ;  he  belongs  to  my  fold.  Go  your 
ways  in  God's  strength,  John,  for  this  grief  o' 
yours  shall  be  crowned  with  consolation." 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  this  conference 
strengthened  John  Callendar.  Naturally  a  very 
choleric  man,  he  controlled  himself  into  a  great 
patience  with  his  erring  nephew.  He  watched 
for  him  like  a  father;  nay,  more  like  a  mother's 
was  the  thoughtful  tenderness  of  his  care.  And 
David  was  often  so  touched  by  the  love  and  for- 
bearance shown  him,  that  he  made  passionate  ac- 
knowledgments of  his  sin  and  earnest  efforts  to 
conquer  it.  Sometimes  for  a  week  together  he 
abstained  entirely,  though  during  these  intervals 
of  reason  he  was  very  trying.  His  remorse,  his 
shame,  his  physical  suffering,  were  so  great  that 
he  needed  the  most  patient  tenderness;  and  yet  he 
frequently  resented  this  tenderness  in  a  mood}-, 


FACING   HIS   BNKMY.  2O/ 

sullen  way  that  was  a  shocking  contrast  to  his 
once  bright  and  affectionate  manner. 

So  things  went  on  until  the  close  of  the  year. 
By  that  time  the  affairs  of  the  broken  firm  had 
been  thoroughly  investigated,  and  it  was  found 
that  its  liabilities  were  nearly  ,£20,000  above  its 
assets.  Suddenly,  however,  bundle  wools  took  an 
enormous  rise,  and  as  the  stock  of  ' '  Callendar  & 
Leslie ' '  was  mainly  of  this  kind,  they  were  pushed 
on  the  market,  and  sold  at  a  rate  which  reduced 
the  firm's  debts  to  about  ^17,000.  This  piece  of 
good  fortune  only  irritated  David ;  he  was  sure 
now  that  if  Robert  had  continued  the  fight  they 
would  have  been  in  a  position  to  clear  themselves. 
Still,  whatever  credit  was  due  the  transaction 
was  frankly  given  to  David.  It  was  his  commer- 
cial instinct  that  had  divined  the  opportunity  and 
seized  it,  and  a  short  item  in  the  ' '  Glasgow  Her- 
ald ' '  spoke  in  a  cautiously  flattering  way  of  the 
affair. 

Both  John  and  David  were  greatly  pleased  at 
the  circumstance.  David  also  had  been  perfectly 
sober  during  the  few  days  he  had  this  stroke  of 
business  in  hand,  and  the  public  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  service  to  the  firm's  creditors  was  par- 
ticularly flattering  to  him.  He  came  down  to 
breakfast  that  morning  as  he  had  not  come  for 
months.  It  was  a  glimpse  of  the  old  Davie  back 


208  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

again,  and  John  was  as  happy  as  a  child  in  the 
vision.  Into  his  heart  came  at  once  Dr.  Morri- 
son's assertion  that  David  must  have  some  regu- 
lar duty  to  keep  his  life  erect.  It  was  evident 
that  the  obligation  of  a  trust  had  a  controlling 
influence  over  him. 

"  David,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "you  must  hae 
nearly  done  wi'  that  first  venture  o'  yours.  The 
next  will  hae  to  redeem  it;  that  is  all  about  it. 
Everything  is  possible  to  a  man  under  forty  years 
auld." 

"We  have  our  final  meeting  this  afternoon, 
uncle.  I  shall  lock  the  doors  for  ever  to-night." 

"And  your  debts  are  na  as  much  as  you  ex- 
pected." 

"They  will  not  be  over  ^17,000,  and  they 
may  be  considerably  less.  I  hope  to  make  an- 
other sale  this  morning.  There  are  yet  three 
thousand  bundles  in  the  stock. ' ' 

"David,  I  shall  put ^20,000  in  your  ain  name 
and  for  your  ain  use,  whatever  that  use  may  be, 
in  the  Western  Bank  this  morning.  I  think 
you'll  do  the  best  thing  you  can  do  to  set  your 
name  clear  again.  If  you  are  my  boy  you 
will." 

"Uncle  John,  you  cannot  really  mean  that  I 
may  pay  every  shilling  I  owe,  and  go  back  on 
the  Exchange  with  a  white  name?  O  uncle,  if 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  209 

you  should  mean  this,  what  a  man  you  would 
make  of  me !" 

"  It  is  just  what  I  mean  to  do,  Davie.  Is  na 
all  that  I  have  yours  and  your  children's?  But 
oh,  I  thank  God  that  you  hae  still  a  heart  that 
counts  honor  more  than  gold.  David,  after  this 
I  wont  let  go  one  o'  the  hopes  I  have  ever  had  for 
you. ' ' 

"  You  need  not,  uncle.  Please  God,  and  with 
his  help,  I  will  make  every  one  of  them  good." 

And  he  meant  to  do  it.  He  never  had  felt 
more  certain  of  himself  or  more  hopeful  for  the 
future  than  when  he  went  out  that  morning. 
He  touched  nothing  all  day,  and  as  the  short, 
dark  afternoon  closed  in,  he  went  cheerfully  to- 
wards the  mill,  with  his  new  check-book  in  his 
pocket  and  the  assurance  in  his  heart  that  in  a 
few  hours  he  could  stand  up  among  his  fellow- 
citizens  free  from  the  stain  of  debt. 

His  short  speech  at  the  final  meeting  was  so 
frank  and  manly,  and  so  just  and  honorable  to  his 
uncle,  that  it  roused  a  quiet  but  deep  enthusiasm. 
Many  of  the  older  men  had  to  wipe  the  mist  from 
their  glasses,  and  the  heaviest  creditor  stood  up 
and  took  David's  hand,  saying,  "Gentlemen,  I 
hae  made  money,  and  I  hae  saved  money,  and  I 
hae  had  money  left  me;  but  I  never  made,  nor 
saved,  nor  got  money  that  gave  me  such  honest 
27 


210  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

pleasure  as  this  siller  I  hae  found  in  twa  honest 
men's  hearts.  Let 's  hae  in  the  toddy  and  drink 
to  the  twa  Callendars." 

Alas !  alas !  how  often  is  it  our  friends  from 
whom  we  ought  to  pray  to  be  preserved.  The 
man  meant  kindly;  he  was  a  good  man,  he  was  a 
God-fearing  man,  and  even  while  he  was  setting 
temptation  before  his  poor,  weak  brother,  he  was 
thinking  "that  money  so  clean  and  fair  and  un- 
expected should  be  given  to  some  holy  purpose." 
But  the  best  of  us  are  the  slaves  of  habit  and 
chronic  thoughtlessness.  All  his  life  he  had  sig- 
nalled every  happy  event  by  a  libation  of  toddy; 
everybody  else  did  the  same;  and  although  he 
knew  David's  weakness,  he  did  not  think  of  it 
in  connection  with  that  wisest  of  all  prayers, 
u  Lead  us  not  into  temptation." 


FACING   HIS   ENEMY.  211 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DAVID  ought  to  have  left  then,  but  he  did  not; 
and  when  his  uncle's  health  was  given,  and  the 
glass  of  steaming  whiskey  stood  before  him,  he 
raised  it  to  his  lips  and  drank.  It  was  easy  to 
drink  the  second  glass  and  the  third,  and  so  on. 
The  men  fell  into  reminiscence  and  song,  and  no 
one  knew  how  muny  glasses  were  mixed;  and 
even  when  they  stood  at  the  door  they  turned 
back  for  "a  thimbleful  o'  raw  speerit  to  keep  out 
the  cold,"  for  it  had  begun  to  snow,  and  there 
was  a  chill,  wet,  east  wind. 

Then  they  went ;  and  when  their  forms  were 
lost  in  the  misty  gloom,  and  even  their  voices  had 
died  away,  David  turned  back  to  put  out  the 
lights,  and  lock  the  mill-door  for  the  last  time. 
Suddenly  it  struck  him  that  he  had  not  seen  Rob- 
ert Leslie  for  an  hour  at  least,  and  while  he  was 
wondering  about  it  in  a  vague,  drunken  way, 
Robert  came  out  of  an  inner  room,  white  with 
scornful  anger,  and  in  a  most  quarrelsome 
mood. 

"  You  have  made  a  nice  fool  of  yoursel',  Da- 
vid Callendar  !  Flinging  awa  so  much  gude  gold 
for  a  speech  and  a  glass  o'  whiskey  !  Ugh  !" 


212  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"You  may  think  so,  Robert.  The  Leslies 
have  always  been  '  rievers  and  thievers  ;'  but  the 
Callendars  are  of  another  stock. ' ' 

"The  Callendars  are  like  ither  folk — good 
and  bad,  and  mostly  bad.  Money,  not  honor, 
rules  thewarld  in  these  days;  and  when  folk  have 
turned  spinners,  what  is  the  use  o'  talking  about 
honor !  Profit  is  a  word  more  fitting. ' ' 

"I  count  mysel'  no  less  a  Callendar  than  my 
great-grandfather,  Evan  Callendar,  who  led  the 
last  hopeless  charge  on  Culloden.  If  I  am  a  spin- 
ner, I'll  never  be  the  first  to  smirch  the  roll  o' 
my  house  with  debt  and  dishonesty,  if  I  can  help 
it." 

"Fair  nonsense!  The  height  of  nonsense! 
Your  ancestors  indeed !  Mules  make  a  great  to- 
do  about  their  ancestors  having  been  horses !" 

David  retorted  with  hot  sarcasm  on  the  free- 
booting  Leslies,  and  their  kin  the  Armstrongs 
and  Kennedys;  and  to  Scotchmen  this  is  the  very 
sorest  side  of  a  quarrel.  They  can  forgive  a  bit- 
ter word  against  themselves  perhaps,  but  against 
their  clan,  or  their  dead,  it  is  an  unpardonable  of- 
fence. And  certainly  Robert  had  an  unfair  ad- 
vantage; he  was  in  a  cool,  wicked  temper  of  envy 
and  covetousness.  He  could  have  struck  himself 
for  not  having  foreseen  that  old  John  Callendar 
would  be  sure  to  clear  the  name  of  dishonor,  and 


FACING  HIS  ENBMY.  213 

thus  let  David  and  his  ;£  20,000  slip  out  of  his 
control. 

David  had  drunk  enough  to  excite  all  the  he- 
reditary fight  in  his  nature,  and  not  enough  to 
dull  the  anger  and  remorse  he  felt  for  having 
drunk  anything  at  all.  The  dreary,  damp  atmo- 
sphere and  the  cold,  sloppy  turf  of  Glasgow  Green 
might  have  brought  them  back  to  the  ordinary 
cares  and  troubles  of  every-day  life,  but  it  did  not. 
This  grim  oasis  in  the  very  centre  of  the  hardest 
and  bitterest  existences  was  now  deserted.  The 
dull,  heavy  swash  of  the  dirty  Clyde  and  the  dis- 
tant hum  of  the  sorrowful  voices  of  humanity  in 
the  adjacent  streets  hardly  touched  the  sharp,  cut- 
ting accents  of  the  two  quarrelling  men.  No  hu- 
man ears  heard  them,  and  no  human  eyes  saw  the 
uplifted  hands  and  the  sway  and  fall  of  Robert 
Leslie  upon  the  smutty  and  half  melted  snow, 
except  David's. 

Yes ;  David  saw  him  fall,  and  heard  with  a 
strange  terror  the  peculiar  thud  and  the  long 
moan  that  followed  it.  It  sobered  him  at  once 
and  completely.  The  shock  was  frightful.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  upturned  face, 
and  then  with  a  fearful  horror  he  stooped  and 
touched  it.  There  was  no  response  to  either  en- 
treaties or  movement,  and  David  was  sure  after 
five  minutes'  efforts  there  never  would  be.  Then 


214  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

his  children,  his  uncle,  his  own  life,  pressed  upon 
him  like  a  surging  crowd.  His  rapid  mind  took 
in  the  situation  at  once.  There  was  no  proof. 
Nobody  had  seen  them  leave  together.  Robert 
had  certainly  left  the  company  an  hour  before  it 
scattered ;  none  of  them  could  know  that  he  was 
waiting  in  that  inner  room.  With  a  rapid  step 
he  took  his  way  through  Kent  street  into  a  region 
where  he  was  quite  unknown,  and  by  a  circuitous 
route  reached  the  foot  of  Great  George  street. 

He  arrived  at  home  about  eight  o'clock. 
John  had  had  his  dinner,  and  the  younger  chil- 
dren had  gone  to  bed.  Little  John  sat  opposite 
him  on  the  hearthrug,  but  the  old  man  and  the 
child  were  both  lost  in  thought.  David's  face  at 
once  terrified  his  uncle. 

"Johnnie,"  he  said,  with  a  weary  pathos  in 
his  voice,  "your  father  wants  to  see  me  alane. 
You  had  best  say  'Gude-night,'  my  wee  man." 

The  child  kissed  his  uncle,  and  after  a  glance 
into  his  father's  face  went  quietly  out.  His  little 
heart  had  divined  that  he  "must  not  disturb 
papa."  David's  eyes  followed  him  with  an  al- 
most overmastering  grief  and  love,  but  when  John 
said  sternly,  "  No.w,  David  Callendar,  what  is  it 
this  time  ?' '  he  answered  with  a  sullen  despair, 

"It  is  the  last  trouble  I  can  bring  you.  I 
have  killed  Robert  Leslie !" 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  215 

The  old  man  uttered  a  cry  of  horror,  and  stood 
looking  at  his  nephew  as  if  he  doubted  his  san- 
ity. 

u  I  am  not  going  to  excuse  mysel',  sir.  Rob- 
ert said  some  aggravating  things,  and  he  struck 
me  first ;  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I 
struck  him  and  he  fell.  I  think  he  hit  his  head 
in  falling;  but  it  was  dark  and  stormy,  I  could 
not  see.  I  do  n'  t  excuse  mysel'  at  all.  I  am  as 
wicked  and  lost  as  a  man  can  be.  Just  help  me 
awa,  Uncle  John,  and  I  will  trouble  you  no  more 
for  ever." 

"Where  hae  you  left  Robert?" 

' '  Where  he  fell,  about  300  yards  above  Ruth- 
erglen  Bridge." 

"You  are  a  maist  unmerciful  man!  I  ne'er 
liked  Robert,  but  had  he  been  my  bitterest  ene- 
my I  would  hae  got  him  help  if  there  was  a 
chance  for  life,  and  if  not,  I  would  hae  sought  a 
shelter  for  his  corpse." 

Then  he  walked  to  the  parlor  door,  locked  it, 
and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"As  for  helping  you  awa,  sir,  I  '11  ne'er  do  it, 
ne'er;  you  hae  sinned,  and  you'll  pay  the  pen- 
alty, as  a  man  should  do." 

' '  Uncle,  have  mercy  on  me. ' ' 

"Justice  has  a  voice  as  weel  as  mercy.  O 
waly,  waly !"  cried  the  wretched  old  man,  going 


2l6  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

back  to  the  pathetic  Gaelic  of  his  childhood,  UO 
waly,  waly  !  to  think  o'  the  sin  and  the  shame  o' 
it.  Plenty  o'  Callendars  hae  died  before  their 
time,  but  it  has  been  wi'  their  faces  to  their  foes 
and  their  claymores  in  their  hands.  O  Davie, 
Da  vie !  my  lad,  my  lad  !  My  Davie  !" 

His  agony  shook  him  as  a  great  wind  shakes 
the  tree-tops,  and  David  stood  watching  him  in  a 
misery  still  keener  and  more  hopeless.  For  a  few 
moments  neither  spoke.  Then  John  rose  wearily 
and  said, 

"  I  '11  go  with  you,  David,  to  the  proper  place. 
Justice  must  be  done — yes,  yes,  it  is  just  and 
right.'' 

Then  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  clasping  his 
hands,  cried  out, 

"  But,  O  my  heavenly  Father,  be  merciful,  be 
merciful,  for  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law, 
Come,  David,  we  hae  delayed  o'er  long." 

' '  Where  are  you  going,  uncle  ?' ' 

' '  You  ken  where  weel  enough. ' ' 

* '  Dear  uncle,  be  merciful.  At  least  let  us  gc 
see  Dr.  Morrison  first.  Whatever  he  says  I  will 
do." 

"I'll  do  that;  I'll  be  glad  to  do  that;  maybe 
he'll  find  me  a  road  out  o'  this  sair,  sair  strait. 
God  help  us  all,  for  vain  is  the  help  o'  man. ' ' 


FACING   HIS   ENEMY.  217 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHEN  they  entered  Dr.  Morrison's  house  the 
doctor  entered  with  them.  He  was  wet  through, 
and  his  swarthy  face  was  in  a  glow  of  excitement. 
A  stranger  was  with  him,  and  this  stranger  he 
hastily  took  into  a  room  behind  the  parlor,  and 
then  he  came  back  to  his  visitors. 

"Well,  John,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  Murder.  Murder  is  the  matter,  doctor,"  and 
with  a  strange,  quiet  precision  he  went  over  Da- 
vid's confession,  for  David  had  quite  broken  down 
and  was  sobbing  with  all  the  abandon  of  a  little 
child.  During  the  recital  the  minister's  face  was 
wonderful  in  its  changes  of  expression,  but  at  the 
last  a  kind  of  adoring  hopefulness  was  the  most 
decided. 

"John,"  he  said,  "  what  were  you  going  to  do 
wi'  that  sorrowfu'  lad?" 

u  I  was  going  to  gie  him  up  to  justice,  minis- 
ter, as  it  was  right  and  just  to  do ;  but  first  we 
must  see  about — about  the  body.'* 

' '  That  has,  without  doot,  been  already  cared 
for.  On  the  warst  o'  nights  there  are  plenty  o' 
folk  passing  o'er  Glasgow  Green  after  the  tea- 
hour.  It  is  David  we  must  care  for  now.  Why 

28 


2l8  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

should  we  gie  him  up  to  the  law  ?  Not  but  what 
'  the  law  is  good,  if  a  man  use  it  lawfully.'  But 
see  how  the  lad  is  weeping.  Dinna  mak  yoursel' 
hard  to  a  broken  heart,  deacon.  God  himsel'  has 
promised  to  listen  to  it.  You  must  go  back  hame 
and  leave  him  wi'  me.  And,  John,"  he  said, 
with  an  air  of  triumph,  as  they  stood  at  the  door 
together,  with  the  snow  blowing  in  their  uplifted 
faces,  "John,  my  dear  old  brother  John,  go  hame 
and  bless  God ;  for,  I  tell  you,  this  thing  shall  turn 
out  to  be  a  great  salvation." 

So  John  went  home,  praying  as  he  went,  and 
conscious  of  a  strange  hopefulness  in  the  midst  of 
his  grief.  The  minister  turned  back  to  the  sob- 
bing criminal,  and  touching  him  gently,  said, 

"Davie,  my  son,  come  wi'  me." 

David  rose  hopelessly  and  followed  him. 
They  went  into  the  room  where  they  had  seen 
the  minister  take  the  stranger  who  had  entered 
the  house  with  them.  The  stranger  was  still 
there,  and  as  they  entered  he  came  gently  and 
on  tiptoe  to  meet  them." 

"Dr.  Fleming,"  said  the  minister,  "this  is 
David  Callendar,  your  patient's  late  partner  in 
business;  he  wishes  to  be  the  poor  man's  nurse, 
and  indeed,  sir,  I  ken  no  one  fitter  for  the  duty." 

So  Dr.  Fleming  took  David's  hand,  and  then 
in  a  low  voice  gave  him  directions  for  the  night's 


FACING   HIS   ENEMY. 

watch,  though  David,  in  the  sudden  hope  and  re- 
lief that  had  come  to  him,  could  scarcely  compre- 
hend them.  Then  the  physician  went,  and  the 
minister  and  David  sat  by  the  bedside  alone. 
Robert  lay  in  the  very  similitude  and  presence  of 
death,  uti conscious  both  of  his  sufferings  and  his 
friends.  Congestion  of  the  brain  had  set  in,  and 
life  was  only  revealed  by  the  faintest  pulsations, 
and  by  the  appliances  for  relief  which  medical 
skill  thought  it  worth  while  to  make. 

"  '  And  sin,  when  it  is  finished,  bringeth  forth 
death,'"  said  the  doctor  solemnly.  "David, 
there  is  your  work." 

"God  knows  how  patiently  and  willingly  I '11 
do  it,  minister.  Poor  Robert,  I  never  meant  to 
harm  him." 

"  Now  listen  to  me,  and  wonder  at  God's  mer- 
ciful ways.  Auld  Deacon  Galbraith,  who  lives 
just  beyond  Rutherglen  Bridge,  sent  me  word 
this  afternoon  that  he  had  gotten  a  summons  from 
his  Lord,  and  he  would  like  to  see  my  face  ance 
mair  before  he  went  awa  for  ever.  He  has  been 
my  right  hand  in  the  kirk,  and  I  loved  him  weel. 
Sae  I  went  to  bid  him  a  short  Gude-by — for  we  '11 
meet  again  in  a  few  years  at  the  maist — and  I 
found  him  sae  glad  and  solemnly  happy  within 
sight  o'  the  heavenly  shore,  that  I  tarried  wi'  him 
a  few  hours,  and  we  ate  and  drank  his  last  sacra- 


220  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

inent  together.  He  dropped  my  hand  wi'  a  smile 
at  half-past  six  o'clock,  and  after  comforting  his 
wife  and  children  a  bit  I  turned  my  face  hame- 
ward.  But  I  was  in  that  mood  that  I  didna  care 
to  sit  i'  a  crowded  omnibus,  and  I  wanted  to  be 
moving  wi'  my  thoughts.  The  falling  snow  and 
the  deserted  Green  seemed  good  to  me,  and  I 
walked  on  thinking  o'er  again  the  deacon's  last 
utterances,  for  they  were  wise  and  good  even  be- 
yond the  man's  nature.  That  is  how  I  came 
across  Robert  Leslie.  I  thought  he  was  dead, 
but  I  carried  him  in  my  arms  to  the  House  o'  the 
Humane  Society,  which,  you  ken,  isna  one  hun- 
dred yards  from  where  Robert  fell.  The  officer 
there  said  he  wasna  dead,  sae  I  brought  him  here 
and  went  for  the  physician  you  spoke  to.  Now, 
Davie,  it  is  needless  for  me  to  say  mair.  You 
ken  what  I  expect  o'  you.  You  '11  get  no  whis- 
key in  this  house,  not  a  drop  o'  it.  If  the  sick 
man  needs  anything  o'  that  kind,  I  shall  gie  it 
wi'  my  ain  hand;  and  you  wont  leave  this  house> 
David,  until  I  see  whether  Robert  is  to  live  or 
die.  You  must  gie  me  your  word  o'  honor  for 
that." 

"Minister,  pray  what  is  my  word  worth?" 
"Everything  it  promises,  David  Callendar.    I 
would  trust  your  word  afore  I  'd  trust  a  couple  o' 
constables,  for  a'  that's  come  and  gane." 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  221 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  doctor  !  You  shall 
not  trust,  and  be  deceived.  I  solemnly  promise 
you  to  do  my  best  for  Robert,  and  not  to  leave 
your  house  until  I  have  your  permission. ' ' 

The  next  morning  Dr.  Morrison  was  at  John 
Callendar's  before  he  sat  down  to  breakfast.  He 
had  the  morning  paper  with  him,  and  he  pointed 
out  a  paragraph  which  ran  thus:  "Robert  Leslie, 
of  the  late  firm  of  Callendar  &  Leslie,  was  found 
by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Morrison  in  an  unconscious  con- 
dition on  the  Green  last  night  about  seven  o'clock. 
It  is  supposed  the  young  gentleman  slipped  and 
fell,  and  in  the  fall  struck  his  head,  as  congestion 
of  the  brain  has  taken  place.  He  lies  at  Dr.  Mor- 
rison's house,  and  is  being  carefully  nursed  by  his 
late  partner,  though  there  is  but  little  hope  of  his 
recovery. ' ' 

"  Minister,  it  wasna  you  surely  wha  concocted 
this  lie?" 

' '  Nobody  has  told  a  lie,  John.  Do  n't  be  over- 
righteous,  man ;  there  is  an  unreasonableness  o' 
virtue  that  savors  o'  pride.  I  really  thought  Rob- 
ert had  had  an  accident,  until  you  told  me  the 
truth  o'  the  matter.  The  people  at  the  Humane 
Society  did  the  same ;  sae  did  Dr.  Fleming.  I 
suppose  some  reporter  got  the  information  from 
one  o'  the  latter  sources.  But  if  Robert  gets  well, 
we  may  let  it  stand;  and  if  he  doesna  get  well,  I 


222  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

shall  seek  counsel  o'  God  before  I  take  a  step  far- 
ther. In  the  meantime  David  is  doing  his  first 
duty  in  nursing  him;  and  David  will  stay  in  my 
house  till  I  see  whether  it  be  a  case  o'  murder  or 
not" 

For  three  weeks  there  was  but  the  barest  pos- 
sibility of  Robert's  recovery.  But  his  youth  and 
fine  constitution,  aided  by  the  skill  of  his  physi- 
cian and  the  unremitting  care  of  his  nurse,  were 
at  length,  through  God's  mercy,  permitted  to  gain 
a  slight  advantage.  The  discipline  of  that  three 
weeks  was  a  salutary  though  a  terrible  one  to 
David.  Sometimes  it  became  almost  intolerable; 
but  always,  when  it  reached  this  point,  Dr.  Mor- 
rison seemed,  by  some  fine  spiritual  instinct,  to 
discover  the  danger  and  hasten  to  his  assistance. 
Life  has  silences  more  pathetic  than  death's;  and 
the  stillness  of  that  darkened  room,  with  its  white 
prostrate  figure,  was  a  stillness  in  which  David 
heard  many  voices  he  never  would  have  heard  in 
the  crying  out  of  the  noisy  world. 

What  they  said  to  him  about  his  wasted  youth 
and  talents,  and  about  his  neglected  Saviour,  only 
his  own  heart  knew.  But  he  must  have  suffered 
very  much,  for,  at  the  end  of  a  month,  he  looked 
like  a  man  who  had  himself  walked  through  the 
valley  and  shadow  of  death.  About  this  time 
Dr.  Morrison  began  to  drop  in  for  an  hour  or  two 


FACING  HIS  ENEMY.  223 

every  evening;  sometimes  he  took  his  cup  of  tea 
with  the  young  men,  and  then  he  always  talked 
with  David  on  passing  events  in  such  a  way  as  to 
interest  without  fatiguing  the  sick  man.  His 
first  visit  of  this  kind  was  marked  by  a  very  affect- 
ing scene.  He  stood  a  moment  looking  at  Rob- 
ert, and  then  taking  David's  hand,  he  laid  it  in 
Robert's.  But  the  young  men  had  come  to  a  per- 
fect reconciliation  one  midnight  when  the  first 
gleam  of  consciousness  visited  the  sick  man,  and 
Dr.  Morrison  was  delighted  to  see  them  grasp 
each  other  with  a  smile,  while  David  stooped  and 
lovingly  touched  his  friend's  brow. 

"  Doctor,  it  was  my  fault,"  whispered  Robert. 
"  If  I  die,  remember  that.  I  did  my  best  to  an- 
ger Davie,  and  I  struck  him  first.  I  deserved  all 
I  have  had  to  suffer." 

After  this,  however,  Robert  recovered  rapidly, 
and  in  two  months  he  was  quite  well. 

"David,"  said  the  minister  to  him  one  morn- 
ing, ' '  your  trial  is  nearly  over.  I  have  a  mes- 
sage from  Captain  Laird  to  Robert  Leslie.  Laird 
sails  to-night;  his  ship  has  dropped  down  the 
river  a  mile,  and  Robert  must  leave  when  the 
tide  serves;  that  will  be  at  five  o'clock." 

For  Robert  had  shrunk  from  going  again  into 
his  Glasgow  life,  and  had  determined  to  sail 
with  his  friend  Laird  at  once  for  New  York. 


224  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

There  was  no  one  he  loved  more  dearly  than 
David  and  Dr.  Morrison,  and  with  them  his 
converse  had  been  constant  and  very  happy  and 
hopeful.  He  wished  to  leave  his  old  life  with 
this  conclusion  to  it  unmingled  with  any  other 
memories. 


ANDREW  CARGILL'S  CONFESSION. 


CHAPTER   I. 

BETWEEN  Sinverness  and  Creffel  lies  the  val- 
ley of  Glemnora.  Sea  Pells  and  Soutra  Fells 
guard  it  on  each  hand,  and  the  long,  treacherous 
sweep  of  Solway  Frith  is  its  outlet.  It  is  a  region 
of  hills  and  moors,  inhabited  by  a  people  of  sin- 
gular gravity  and  simplicity  of  character,  a  pas- 
toral people,  who  in  its  solemn  high  places  have 
learned  how  to  interpret  the  voices  of  winds  and 
waters  and  to  devoutly  love  their  God. 

Most  of  them  are  of  the  purest  Saxon  origin; 
but  here  and  there  one  meets  the  massive  features 
and  the  blue  bonnet  of  the  Lowland  Scots,  de- 
scendants of  those  stern  Covenanters  who  from 
the  coasts  of  Galloway  and  Dumfries  sought  ref- 
uge in  the  strength  of  these  lonely  hills.  They 
are  easily  distinguished,  and  are  very  proud  of 
their  descent  from  this  race  whom 

"  God  anointed  with  his  odorous  oil 
To  wrestle,  not  to  reign." 
31 


242  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Thirty  years  ago  their  leader  and  elder  was 
Andrew  Cargill,  a  man  of  the  same  lineage  as 
that  famous  Donald  Cargill  who  was  the  Boaner- 
ges of  the  Covenant,  and  who  suffered  martyrdom 
for  his  faith  at  the  town  of  Queensferry.  Andrew 
never  forgot  this  fact,  and  the  stern,  just,  uncom- 
promising spirit  of  the  old  Protester  still  lived  in 
him.  He  was  a  man  well-to-do  in  the  world,  and 
his  comfortable  stone  house  was  one  of  the  best 
known  in  the  vale  of  Glenmora. 

People  who  live  amid  grand  scenery  are  not 
generally  sensitive  to  it,  but  Andrew  was.  The 
adoring  spirit  in  which  he  stood  one  autumn 
evening  at  his  own  door  was  a  very  common  mood 
with  him.  He  looked  over  the  moors  carpeted 
with  golden  brown,  and  the  hills  covered  with 
sheep  and  cattle,  at  the  towering  crags,  more  like 
clouds  at  sunset  than  things  of  solid  land,  at  the 
children  among  the  heather  picking  bilberries,  at 
the  deep,  clear,  purple  mist  that  filled  the  valley, 
not  hindering  the  view,  but  giving  everything  a 
strangely  solemn  aspect,  and  his  face  relaxed  into 
something  very  like  a  smile  as  he  said,  "  It  is  the 
wark  o'  my  Father's  hand,  and  praised  be  his 
name. ' ' 

He  stood  at  his  own  open  door  looking  at  these 
things,  and  inside  his  wife  Mysie  was  laying  the 
supper-board  with  haver  bread  and  cheese  and 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  243 

milk.  A  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  wide  hearth, 
and  half  a  dozen  sheep-dogs  spread  out  their  white 
breasts  to  the  heat.  Great  settles  of  carved  oak, 
bedded  deep  with  fleeces  of  long  wool,  were  on 
the  sides  of  the  fireplace,  and  from  every  wall 
racks  of  spotless  deal,  filled  with  crockery  and 
pewter,  reflected  the  shifting  blaze. 

Suddenly  he  stepped  out  and  looked  anxiously 
towards  the  horizon  on  all  sides.  ' '  Mysie,  wo- 
man, ' '  said  he,  ' '  there  is  a  storm  coming  up  from 
old  Sol  way;  I  maun  e'en  gae  and  fauld  the  ewes 
wi'  their  young  lammies.  Come  awa',  Keeper 
and  Sandy." 

The  dogs  selected  rose  at  once  and  followed 
Andrew  with  right  good-will.  Mysie  watched 
them  a  moment;  but  the  great  clouds  of  mist  roll- 
ing down  from  the  mountains  soon  hid  the  stal- 
wart figure  in  its  bonnet  and  plaid  from  view,  and 
gave  to  the  dogs'  fitful  barks  a  distant,  muffled 
sound.  So  she  went  in  and  sat  down  upon  the 
settle,  folding  her  hands  listlessly  on  her  lap,  and 
letting  the  smile  fall  from  her  face  as  a  mask 
might  fall.  Oh,  what  a  sad  face  it  was  then  ! 

She  sat  thus  in  a  very  trance  of  sorrow  until 
the  tears  dropped  heavily  and  slowly  down,  and 
her  lips  began  to  move  in  broken  supplications. 
Evidently  these  brought  her  the  comfort  she 
sought,  for  erelong  she  rose,  saying  softly  to  her- 


244  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

self,  "The  lost  bit  o'  siller  was  found,  and  the 
strayed  sheep  was  come  up  wi',  and  the  prodigal 
won  hame  again,  and  dootless,  dootless,  my  ain 
dear  lad  will  no  be  lost  sight  o'." 

By  this  time  the  storm  had  broken,  but  Mysie 
was  not  uneasy.  Andrew  knew  the  hills  like  his 
own  ingle,  and  she  could  tell  to  within  five  min- 
utes how  long  it  would  take  him  to  go  to  the 
fauld  and  back.  But  when  it  was  ten  minutes 
past  his  time  Mysie  stood  anxiously  in  the  open 
door  and  listened.  Her  ears,  trained  to  almost 
supernatural  quickness,  soon  detected  above  the 
winds  and  rain  a  sound  of  footsteps.  She  called 
a  wise  old  sheep-dog  and  bid  him  listen.  The 
creature  held  his  head  a  moment  to  the  ground, 
looked  at  her  affirmatively,  and  at  her  command 
went  to  seek  his  master. 

In  a  few  moments  she  heard  Andrew's  pecu- 
liar " hallo!"  and  the  joyful  barking  of  the  dog, 
and  knew  that  all  was  right.  Yet  she  could  not 
go  in;  she  felt  that  something  unusual  had  hap- 
pened, and  stood  waiting  for  whatever  was  com- 
ing. It  was  a  poor,  little,  half-drowned  baby. 
Andrew  took  it  from  under  his  plaid,  and  laid  it 
in  her  arms,  saying, 

"I  maun  go  now  and  look  after  the  mither. 
I'll  need  to  yoke  the  cart  for  her;  she's  past 
walking,  and  I'm  sair  feared  she's  past  living; 


CARGILI/S  CONFESSION.  245 

but  you'll  save  the  bit  bairn,  Mysie,  nae  doot; 
for  God  disna  smite  aften  wi'  baith  hands." 

' '  Where  is  she,  Andrew  ?' ' 

"  'Mang  the  Druids'  stanes,  Mysie,  and  that's 
an  ill  place  for  a  Christian  woman  to  die.  God 
forbid  it!"  he  muttered,  as  he  lit  a  lantern  and 
went  rapidly  to  the  stable;  "an  evil  place  !  under 
the  vera  altar-stane  o'  Satan.  God  stay  the 
parting  soul  till  it  can  hear  a  word  o'  his  great 
mercy  !" 

With  such  a  motive  to  prompt  him,  Andrew 
was  not  long  in  reaching  the  ruins  of  the  old  Dru- 
idical  temple.  Under  a  raised  flat  stone,  which 
made  a  kind  of  shelter,  a  woman  was  lying.  She 
was  now  insensible,  and  Andrew  lifted  her  care- 
fully into  the  cart.  Perhaps  it  was  some  satisfac- 
tion to  him  that  she  did  not  actually  die  within 
such  unhallowed  precincts;  but  the  poor  creature 
herself  was  beyond  such  care.  When  she  had 
seen  her  child  in  Mysie' s  arms,  and  comprehend- 
ed Mysie' s  assurance  that  she  would  care  for  it, 
all  anxiety  slipped  away  from  her.  Andrew 
strove  hard  to  make  her  understand  the  awful 
situation  in  which  she  was;  but  the  girl  lay  smi- 
ling, with  upturned  eyes,  as  if  she  was  glad  to  be 
relieved  of  the  burden  of  living. 

"You  hae  done  your  duty,  gudeman,"  at 
length  said  Mysie,  "and  now  you  may  leave  the 


246  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

puir  bit  lassie  to  me;  I'll  dootless  find  a  word  o' 
comfort  to  say  to  her. ' ' 

"  But  I  'm  feared,  I  am  awfu'  feared,  woman, 
that  she  is  but  a  prodigal  and  an — " 

"Hush,  gudeman !  There  is  mercy  for  the 
prodigal  daughter  as  weel  as  for  the  prodigal 
son;"  and  at  these  words  Andrew  went  out  with 
a  dark,  stern  face,  while  she  turned  with  a  new 
and  stronger  tenderness  to  the  dying  woman. 

"God  is  love,"  she  whispered;  "if  you  hae 
done  aught  wrang,  there's  the  open  grave  o' 
Jesus,  dearie;  just  bury  your  wrang-doing  there." 
She  was  answered  with  a  happy  smile.  "And 
your  little  lad  is  my  lad  fra  this  hour,  dearie!" 
The  dying  lips  parted,  and  Mysie  knew  they  had 
spoken  a  blessing  for  her. 

Nothing  was  found  upon  the  woman  that 
could  identify  her,  nothing  except  a  cruel  letter, 
which  evidently  came  from  the  girl's  father;  but 
even  in  this  there  was  neither  date  nor  locality 
named.  It  had  no  term  of  endearment  to  com- 
mence with,  and  was  signed  simply,  "John  Dun- 
bar."  Two  things  were,  however,  proven  by  it: 
that  the  woman's  given  name  was  Bessie,  and 
that  by  her  marriage  she  had  cut  herself  off  from 
her  home  and  her  father's  affection. 

So  she  was  laid  by  stranger  hands  within  that 
doorless  house  in  the  which  God  sometimes 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  247 

mercifully  puts  his  weary  ones  to  sleep.  Mysie 
took  the  child  to  her  heart  at  once,  and  Andrew 
was  not  long  able  to  resist  the  little  lad's  beauty 
and  winning  ways.  The  neighbors  began  to  call 
him  "wee  Andrew;"  and  the  old  man  grew  to 
love  his  namesake  with  a  strangely  tender  affec- 
tion. 

Sometimes  there  was  indeed  a  bitter  feeling  in 
Mysie' s  heart,  as  she  saw  how  gentle  he  was  with 
this  child  and  remembered  how  stern  and  strict 
he  had  been  with  their  own  lad.  She  did  not  un- 
derstand that  the  one  was  in  reality  the  result  of 
the  other,  the  acknowledgement  of  his  fault,  and 
the  touching  effort  to  atone,  in  some  way,  for  it. 

One  night,  when  wee  Andrew  was  about  seven 
years  old,  this  wrong  struck  her  in  a  manner  pe- 
culiarly painful.  Andrew  had  made  a  most  ex- 
traordinary journey,  even  as  far  as  Penrith.  A 
large  manufactory  had  been  begun  there,  and  a 
sudden  demand  for  his  long  staple  of  white  wool 
had  sprung  up.  Moreover,  he  had  had  a  pros- 
perous journey,  and  brought  back  with  him  two 
books  for  the  boy,  ^sop's  Fables  and  Robinson 
Crusoe. 

When  Mysie  saw  them,  her  heart  swelled  be- 
yond control.  She  remembered  a  day  when  her 
own  son  Davie  had  begged  for  these  very  books 
and  been  refused  with  hard  rebukes.  She  re- 


248  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

membered  the  old  man's  bitter  words  and  the 
child's  bitter  tears ;  but  she  did  not  reflect  that 
the  present  concession  was  the  result  of  the  for- 
mer refusal,  nor  yet  that  the  books  were  much 
easier  got  and  the  money  more  plentiful  than 
thirty  years  previous.  When  wee  Andrew  ran 
away  with  his  treasures  to  the  Druids'  stones, 
Mysie  went  into  the  shippen,  and  did  her  milk- 
ing to  some  very  sad  thoughts. 

She  was  poisoning  her  heart  with  her  own 
tears.  When  she  returned  to  the  "  houseplace  " 
and  saw  the  child  bending  with  rapt,  earnest  face 
over  the  books,  she  could  not  avoid  murmuring 
that  the  son  of  a  strange  woman  should  be  sitting 
happy  in  Cargill  spence,  and  her  own  dear  lad  a 
banished  wanderer.  She  had  come  to  a  point 
when  rebellion  would  be  easy  for  her.  Andrew 
saw  a  look  on  her  face  that  amazed  and  troubled 
him:  and  yet  when  she  sat  so  hopelessly  down  be- 
fore the  fire,  and  without  fear  or  apology 

"  Let  the  tears  downfa'," 

he  had  no  heart  to  reprove  her.  Nay,  he  asked 
with  a  very  unusual  concern,  "What's  the  mat- 
ter, Mysie,  woman?" 

"  I  want  to  see  Davie,  and  die,  gudeman  !" 
"You'll  no  dare  to  speak  o'  dying,  wife,  un- 
til the  Lord  gies  you  occasion;  and  Davie  maun 
drink  as  he 's  brewed." 


CARGILL'S  CONCESSION.  249 

"Nay,  gudeman,  but  you  brewed  for  him;  the 
lad  is  drinking  the  cup  you  mixed  wi'  your  ain 
hands. ' ' 

"  I  did  my  duty  by  him." 

"  He  had  ower  muckle  o'  your  duty,  and  ower 
little  o'  your  indulgence.  If  Davie  was  wrang, 
ither  folk  werena  right.  Every  fault  has  its  fore- 
fault." 

Andrew  looked  in  amazement  at  this  woman, 
who  for  thirty  and  more  years  had  never  before 
dared  to  oppose  his  wishes,  and  to  whom  his  word 
had  been  law. 

"Da vie' s  wrang-doing  was  weel  kent,  gude- 
wife ;  he  hasted  to  sin  like  a  moth  to  a  candle. ' ' 

"  It 's  weel  that  our  faults  arena  written  i'  our 
faces. ' ' 

"I  hae  fallen  on  evil  days,  Mysie;  saxty  years 
syne  wives  and  bairns  werena  sae  contrarie. ' ' 

"  There  was  gude  and  bad  then,  as  now,  gude- 
man. ' ' 

Mysie' s  face  had  a  dour,  determined  look  that 
no  one  had  ever  seen  on  it  before.  Andrew  be- 
gan to  feel  irritated  at  her.  "What  do  you  want, 
woman?"  he  said  sternly. 

"  I  want  my  bairn,  Andrew  Cargill." 

"Your  bairn  is  i'  some  far-awa  country, 
squandering  his  share  o'  Paradise  wi'  publicans 

and  sinners." 

32 


250  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

"  I  hope  not,  I  hope  not;  if  it  werena  for  this 
hope  rny  heart  would  break;"  and  then  all  the 
barriers  that  education  and  habit  had  built  were 
suddenly  overthrown  as  by  an  earthquake,  and 
Mysie  cried  out  passionately,  "  I  want  my  bairn, 
Andrew  Cargill!  the  bonnie  bairn  that  lay  on  my 
bosom,  and  was  dandled  on  my  knees,  and  sobbed 
out  his  sorrows  i'  my  arms.  I  want  the  bairn  you 
were  aye  girding  and  grumbling  at !  that  got  the 
rod  for  this,  and  the  hard  word  and  the  black  look 
for  that !  My  bounie  Da  vie,  wha  ne'er  had  a 
playtime  nor  a  story-book !  O  gudeman,  I  want 
my  bairn!  I  want  my  bairn!" 

The  repressed  passion  and  sorrow  of  ten  long 
years  had  found  an  outlet  and  would  not  be  con- 
trolled. Andrew  laid  down  his  pipe  in  amaze- 
ment and  terror,  and  for  a  moment  he  feared  his 
wife  had  lost  her  senses.  He  had  a  tender  heart 
beneath  his  stern,  grave  manner,  and  his  first  im- 
pulse was  just  to  take  the  sobbing  mother  to  his 
breast  and  promise  her  all  she  asked.  But  he 
did  not  do  it  the  first  moment,  and  he  could  not 
the  second.  Yet  he  did  rise  and  go  to  her,  and  in 
his  awkward  way  try  to  comfort  her.  "  Dinna 
greet  that  way,  Mysie,  woman,"  he  said;  "if  I 
hae  done  amiss,  I  '11  mak  amends." 

That  was  a  great  thing  for  Andrew  Cargill  to 
say;  Mysie  hardly  knew  how  to  believe  it.  Such 


CAROTIDS  CONFESSION.  2$I 

a  confession  was  a  kind  of  miracle,  for  she  judged 
things  by  results  and  was  not  given  to  any  con- 
sideration of  the  events  that  led  up  to  them.  She 
could  not  know,  and  did  not  suspect,  that  all  the 
bitter  truths  she  had  spoken  had  been  gradually 
forcing  themselves  on  her  husband's  mind.  She 
did  not  know  that  wee  Andrew's  happy  face  over 
his  story-books,  and  his  eager  claim  for  sympathy, 
had  been  an  accusation  and  a  reproach  which  the 
old  man  had  already  humbly  and  sorrowfully  ac- 
cepted. Therefore  his  confession  and  his  promise 
were  a  wonder  to  the  woman,  who  had  never  be- 
fore dared  to  admit  that  it  was  possible  Andrew 
Cargill  should  do  wrong  in  his  own  household. 


252  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  confidence  that  came  after  this  plain 
speaking  was  very  sweet  and  comforting  to  both, 
although  in  their  isolation  and  ignorance  they 
knew  not  what  steps  to  take  in  order  to  find  Da- 
vie.  Ten  years  had  elapsed  since  he  had  hung 
for  one  heart-breaking  moment  on  his  mother's 
neck,  and  bid,  as  he  told  her,  a  farewell  for  ever 
to  the  miserable  scenes  of  his  hard,  bare  child- 
hood. Mysie  had  not  been  able  to  make  herself 
believe  that  he  was  very  wrong;  dancing  at  pretty 
Mary  Halliday's  bridal  and  singing  two  or  three 
love-songs  did  not  seem  to  the  fond  mother  such 
awful  transgressions  as  the  stern,  strict  Covenant- 
er really  believed  them  to  be,  though  even  Mysie 
was  willing  to  allow  that  Da  vie,  in  being  be- 
guiled into  such  sinful  folly,  "had  made  a  sair 
tumble." 

However,  Davie  and  his  father  had  both  said 
things  that  neither  could  win  over,  and  the  lad 
had  gone  proudly  down  the  hill  with  but  a  few 
shillings  in  his  pocket.  Since  then  there  had 
been  ten  years  of  anxious,  longing  grief  that  had 
remained  unconfessed  until  this  night.  Now  the 
hearts  of  both  yearned  for  their  lost  sou.  But 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  253 

how  should  they  find  him  ?  Andrew  read  noth- 
ing but  his  Bible  and  almanac;  he  had  no  con- 
ception of  the  world  beyond  Kendal  and  Keswick. 
He  could  scarcely  imagine  David  going  beyond 
these  places,  or,  at  any  rate,  the  coast  of  Scotland. 
Should  he  make  a  pilgrimage  round  about  all 
those  parts  ? 

Mysie  shook  her  head.  She  thought  Andrew 
had  better  go  to  Keswick  and  see  the  Methodist 
preacher  there.  She  had  heard  they  travelled 
all  over  the  world,  and  if  so,  it  was  more  than 
likely  they  had  seen  Davie  Cargill;  "at  ony  rate, 
he  would  gie  advice  worth  speiring  after." 

Andrew  had  but  a  light  opinion  of  Methodists, 
and  had  never  been  inside  the  little  chapel  at 
Sinverness;  but  Mysie' s  advice,  he  allowed,  "had 
a  savor  o'  sense  in  it, ' '  and  so  the  next  day  he 
rode  over  to  Keswick  and  opened  his  heart  to 
John  Sugden,  the  superintendent  of  the  Derwent 
Circuit.  He  had  assured  himself  on  the  road  that 
he  would  only  tell  John  just  as  much  as  was  ne- 
cessary for  his  quest;  but  he  was  quite  unable  to 
resist  the  preacher's  hearty  sympathy.  There 
never  were  two  men  more  unlike  than  Andrew 
Cargill  and  John  Sugden,  and  yet  they  loved 
each  other  at  once. 

' '  He  is  a  son  o'  consolation,  and  dootless  ane  o' 
God's  chosen,"  said  Andrew  to  Mysie  on  his  return. 


254  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"  He  is  a  far  nobler  old  fellow  than  he  thinks 
he  is,"  said  John  to  his  wife  when  he  told  her  of 
Andrew's  visit 

John  had  advised  advertising  for  Davie  in 
"The  Watchman;"  for  John  really  thought  this 
organ  of  the  Methodist  creed  \vas  the  greatest 
paper  in  existence,  and  honestly  believed  that  if 
Davie  was  anywhere  in  the  civilized  world  ' '  The 
Watchman"  would  find  him  out.  He  was  so 
sure  of  it  that  both  Mysie  and  Andrew  caught  his 
hopeful  tone,  and  began  to  tell  each  other  what 
should  be  done  when  Davie  came  home. 

Poor  Mysie  was  now  doubly  kind  to  wee  An- 
drew. She  accused  herself  bitterly  of  ' '  grudging 
the  bit  lammie  his  story-books,"  and  persuaded 
her  husband  to  bring  back  from  Keswick  for  the 
child  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  and  "  The  Young 
Christian."  John  Sugden,  too,  visited  them 
often,  not  only  staying  at  Cargill  during  his  regu- 
lar appointments,  but  often  riding  over  to  take  a 
day's  recreation  with  the  old  Cameronian.  True, 
they  disputed  the  whole  time.  John  said  very 
positive  things  and  Andrew  very  contemptuous 
ones;  but  as  they  each  kept  their  own  opinions 
intact,  and  were  quite  sure  of  their  grounds  for 
doing  so,  no  words  that  were  uttered  ever  slack- 
ened the  grip  of  their  hands  at  parting. 

One  day,  as  John  was  on  the  way  to  Cargill, 


CARGIU/S  CONFESSION.  255 

he  perceived  a  man  sitting  among  the  Druids' 
stones.  The  stranger  was  a  pleasant  fellow,  and 
after  a  few  words  with  the  preacher  he  proposed 
that  they  should  ride  to  Sinverness  together.  John 
soon  got  to  talking  of  Andrew  and  his  lost  son, 
and  the  stranger  became  greatly  interested.  He 
said  he  should  like  to  go  up  to  Andrew's  and 
get  a  description  of  Davie,  adding  that  he  trav- 
elled far  and  wide,  and  might  happen  to  come 
across  him. 

The  old  man  met  them  at  the  door. 

"  My  sight  fails,  John,"  he  said,  "but  I  'd  hae 
kent  your  step  i'  a  thousand.  You  too  are  wel- 
come, sir,  though  I  ken  you  not,  and  doubly  wel- 
come if  you  bring  God's  blessing  wi'  you." 

The  stranger  lifted  his  hat,  and  Andrew  led 
the  way  into  the  house.  John  had  been  expected, 
for  haver  bread  and  potted  shrimps  were  on  the 
table,  and  he  helped  himself  without  ceremony, 
taking  up  at  the  same  time  their  last  argument 
just  where  he  had  dropped  it  at  the  gate  of  the 
lower  croft.  But  it  had  a  singular  interruption. 
The  sheep-dogs  who  had  been  quietly  sleeping 
under  the  settle  began  to  be  strangely  uneasy. 
Keeper  could  scarcely  be  kept  down,  even  by  An- 
drew's command,  and  Sandy  bounded  towards  the 
stranger  with  low,  rapid  barks  that  made  John 
lose  the  sense  of  the  argument  in  a  new  thought. 


256  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

But  before  he  could  frame  it  into  words  Mysie 
came  in. 

' '  See  here,  John, ' '  she  cried,  and  then  she 
stopped  and  looked  with  wide-open  eyes  at  the 
man  coming  towards  her.  With  one  long,  thrill- 
ing cry  she  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"Mother!  mother!  darling  mother,  forgive 
me!" 

John  had  instantly  gone  to  Andrew's  side,  but 
Andrew  had  risen  at  once  to  the  occasion.  "I'm 
no  a  woman  to  skirl  or  swoon,"  he  said,  almost 
petulantly,  "and  it's  right  and  fit  the  lad  should 
gie  his  rnither  the  first  greeting. ' ' 

But  he  stretched  out  both  hands,  and  his 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  full  when  Davie 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  beside  him. 

"  My  lad  !  my  ain  dear  lad  !"  he  cried,  "  I  '11 
see  nae  better  day  than  this  until  I  see  His  face. ' ' 

No  one  can  tell  the  joy  of  that  hour.  The 
cheese  curds  were  left  in  the  dairy  and  the  wool 
was  left  at  the  wheel,  and  Mysie  forget  her  house- 
hold, and  Andrew  forgot  his  argument,  and  the 
preacher  at  last  said, 

' '  You  shall  tell  us,  Davie,  what  the  Lord  has 
done  for  you  since  you  left  your  father's  house." 

"  He  has  been  gude  to  me,  vera  gude.  I  had 
a  broad  Scot's  tongue  in  my  head,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  go  northward.  I  had  little  siller  and  I 


ANDREW  CARGILL'S  CONFESSION. 


CHAPTER   I. 

BETWEEN  Sinverness  and  Creffel  lies  the  val- 
ley of  Glenmora.  Sea  Fells  and  Soutra  Fells 
guard  it  on  each  hand,  and  the  long,  treacherous 
sweep  of  Solway  Frith  is  its  outlet.  It  is  a  region 
of  hills  and  moors,  inhabited  by  a  people  of  sin- 
gular gravity  and  simplicity  of  character,  a  pas- 
toral people,  who  in  its  solemn  high  places  have 
learned  how  to  interpret  the  voices  of  winds  and 
waters  and  to  devoutly  love  their  God. 

Most  of  them  are  of  the  purest  Saxon  origin; 
but  here  and  there  one  meets  the  massive  features 
and  the  blue  bonnet  of  the  Lowland  Scots,  de- 
scendants of  those  stern  Covenanters  who  from 
the  coasts  of  Galloway  and  Dumfries  sought  ref- 
uge in  the  strength  of  these  lonely  hills.  They 
are  easily  distinguished,  and  are  very  proud  of 
their  descent  from  this  race  whom 

"  God  anointed  with  his  odorous  oil 
To  wrestle,  not  to  reign." 
31 


242  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Thirty  years  ago  their  leader  and  elder  was 
Andrew  Cargill,  a  man  of  the  same  lineage  as 
that  famous  Donald  Cargill  who  was  the  Boaner- 
ges of  the  Covenant,  and  who  suffered  martyrdom 
for  his  faith  at  the  town  of  Queensferry.  Andrew 
never  forgot  this  fact,  and  the  stern,  just,  uncom- 
promising spirit  of  the  old  Protester  still  lived  in 
him.  He  was  a  man  well-to-do  in  the  world,  and 
his  comfortable  stone  house  was  one  of  the  best 
known  in  the  vale  of  Glenmora. 

People  who  live  amid  grand  scenery  are  not 
generally  sensitive  to  it,  but  Andrew  was.  The 
adoring  spirit  in  which  he  stood  one  autumn 
evening  at  his  own  door  was  a  very  common  mood 
with  him.  He  looked  over  the  moors  carpeted 
with  golden  brown,  and  the  hills  covered  with 
sheep  and  cattle,  at  the  towering  crags,  more  like 
clouds  at  sunset  than  things  of  solid  land,  at  the 
children  among  the  heather  picking  bilberries,  at 
the  deep,  clear,  purple  mist  that  filled  the  valley, 
not  hindering  the  view,  but  giving  everything  a 
strangely  solemn  aspect,  and  his  face  relaxed  into 
something  very  like  a  smile  as  he  said,  "  It  is  the 
wark  o'  my  Father's  hand,  and  praised  be  his 
name. ' ' 

He  stood  at  his  own  open  door  looking  at  these 
things,  and  inside  his  wife  Mysie  was  laying  the 
supper-board  with  haver  bread  and  cheese  and 


CARGIU/S  CONFESSION.  243 

milk.  A  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  wide  hearth, 
and  half  a  dozen  sheep-dogs  spread  out  their  white 
breasts  to  the  heat.  Great  settles  of  carved  oak, 
bedded  deep  with  fleeces  of  long  wool,  were  on 
the  sides  of  the  fireplace,  and  from  every  wall 
racks  of  spotless  deal,  filled  with  crockery  and 
pewter,  reflected  the  shifting  blaze. 

Suddenly  he  stepped  out  and  looked  anxiously 
towards  the  horizon  on  all  sides.  "  Mysie,  wo- 
man, ' '  said  he,  ' '  there  is  a  storm  coming  up  from 
old  Sol  way;  I  maun  e'en  gae  and  fauld  the  ewes 
wi'  their  young  lammies.  Come  awa',  Keeper 
and  Sandy." 

The  dogs  selected  rose  at  once  and  followed 
Andrew  with  right  good-will.  Mysie  watched 
them  a  moment;  but  the  great  clouds  of  mist  roll- 
ing down  from  the  mountains  soon  hid  the  stal- 
wart figure  in  its  bonnet  and  plaid  from  view,  and 
gave  to  the  dogs'  fitful  barks  a  distant,  muffled 
sound.  So  she  went  in  and  sat  down  upon  the 
settle,  folding  her  hands  listlessly  on  her  lap,  and 
letting  the  smile  fall  from  her  face  as  a  mask 
might  fall.  Oh,  what  a  sad  face  it  was  then  ! 

She  sat  thus  in  a  very  trance  of  sorrow  until 
the  tears  dropped  heavily  and  slowly  down,  and 
her  lips  began  to  move  in  broken  supplications. 
Evidently  these  brought  her  the  comfort  she 
sought,  for  erelong  she  rose,  saying  softly  to  her- 


244  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

self,  "The  lost  bit  o'  siller  was  found,  and  the 
strayed  sheep  was  come  up  wi',  and  the  prodigal 
won  hame  again,  and  dootless,  dootless,  my  ain 
dear  lad  will  no  be  lost  sight  o'." 

By  this  time  the  storm  had  broken,  but  Mysie 
was  not  uneasy.  Andrew  knew  the  hills  like  his 
own  ingle,  and  she  could  tell  to  within  five  min- 
utes how  long  it  would  take  him  to  go  to  the 
fauld  and  back.  But  when  it  was  ten  minutes 
past  his  time  Mysie  stood  anxiously  in  the  open 
door  and  listened.  Her  ears,  trained  to  almost 
supernatural  quickness,  soon  detected  above  the 
winds  and  rain  a  sound  of  footsteps.  She  called 
a  wise  old  sheep-dog  and  bid  him  listen.  The 
creature  held  his  head  a  moment  to  the  ground, 
looked  at  her  affirmatively,  and  at  her  command 
went  to  seek  his  master. 

In  a  few  moments  she  heard  Andrew's  pecu- 
liar "hallo!"  and  the  joyful  barking  of  the  dog, 
and  knew  that  all  was  right.  Yet  she  could  not 
go  in;  she  felt  that  something  unusual  had  hap- 
pened, and  stood  waiting  for  whatever  was  com- 
ing. It  was  a  poor,  little,  half-drowned  baby. 
Andrew  took  it  from  under  his  plaid,  and  laid  it 
in  her  arms,  saying, 

4 '  I  maun  go  now  and  look  after  the  mither. 
I'll  need  to  yoke  the  cart  for  her;  she's  past 
walking,  and  I'm  sair  feared  she's  past  living; 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  245 

but  you'll  save  the  bit  bairn,  Mysie,  nae  doot; 
for  God  disna  smite  aften  wi'  baith  hands." 

"  Where  is  she,  Andrew?" 

"'Mang  the  Druids'  stanes,  Mysie,  and  that's 
an  ill  place  for  a  Christian  woman  to  die.  God 
forbid  it!"  he  muttered,  as  he  lit  a  lantern  and 
went  rapidly  to  the  stable;  uan  evil  place  !  under 
the  vera  altar-stane  o'  Satan.  God  stay  the 
parting  soul  till  it  can  hear  a  word  o'  his  great 
mercy  !" 

With  such  a  motive  to  prompt  him,  Andrew 
was  not  long  in  reaching  the  ruins  of  the  old  Dru- 
idical  temple.  Under  a  raised  flat  stone,  which 
made  a  kind  of  shelter,  a  woman  was  lying.  She 
was  now  insensible,  and  Andrew  lifted  her  care- 
fully into  the  cart.  Perhaps  it  was  some  satisfac- 
tion to  him  that  she  did  not  actually  die  within 
such  unhallowed  precincts;  but  the  poor  creature 
herself  was  beyond  such  care.  When  she  had 
seen  her  child  in  Mysie' s  arms,  and  comprehend- 
ed Mysie' s  assurance  that  she  would  care  for  it, 
all  anxiety  slipped  away  from  her.  Andrew 
strove  hard  to  make  her  understand  the  awful 
situation  in  which  she  was;  but  the  girl  lay  smi- 
ling, with  upturned  eyes,  as  if  she  was  glad  to  be 
relieved  of  the  burden  of  living. 

"You  hae  done  your  duty,  gudeman,"  at 
length  said  Mysie,  "and  now  you  may  leave  the 


246  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

puir  bit  lassie  to  me;  I'll  dootless  find  a  word  o' 
comfort  to  say  to  her. ' ' 

"But  I'm  feared,  I  am  awfu'  feared,  woman, 
that  she  is  but  a  prodigal  and  an — " 

"Hush,  gudeman !  There  is  mercy  for  the 
prodigal  daughter  as  weel  as  for  the  prodigal 
son;"  and  at  these  words  Andrew  went  out  with 
a  dark,  stern  face,  while  she  turned  with  a  new 
and  stronger  tenderness  to  the  dying  woman. 

"God  is  love,"  she  whispered;  "if  you  hae 
done  aught  wrang,  there's  the  open  grave  o' 
Jesus,  dearie;  just  bury  your  wrang-doing  there." 
She  was  answered  with  a  happy  smile.  ' '  And 
your  little  lad  is  my  lad  fra  this  hour,  dearie!" 
The  dying  lips  parted,  and  Mysie  knew  they  had 
spoken  a  blessing  for  her. 

Nothing  was  found  upon  the  woman  that 
could  identify  her,  nothing  except  a  cruel  letter, 
which  evidently  came  from  the  girl's  father;  but 
even  in  this  there  was  neither  date  nor  locality 
named.  It  had  no  term  of  endearment  to  com- 
mence with,  and  was  signed  simply,  "John  Dun- 
bar."  Two  things  were,  however,  proven  by  it: 
that  the  woman's  given  name  was  Bessie,  and 
that  by  her  marriage  she  had  cut  herself  off  from 
her  home  and  her  father's  affection. 

So  she  was  laid  by  stranger  hands  within  that 
doorless  house  in  the  which  God  sometimes 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  247 

mercifully  puts  his  weary  ones  to  sleep.  Mysie 
took  the  child  to  her  heart  at  once,  and  Andrew 
was  not  long  able  to  resist  the  little  lad's  beauty 
and  winning  ways.  The  neighbors  began  to  call 
him  "wee  Andrew;"  and  the  old  man  grew  to 
love  his  namesake  with  a  strangely  tender  affec- 
tion. 

Sometimes  there  was  indeed  a  bitter  feeling  in 
Mysie' s  heart,  as  she  saw  how  gentle  he  was  with 
this  child  and  remembered  how  stern  and  strict 
he  had  been  with  their  own  lad.  She  did  not  un- 
derstand that  the  one  was  in  reality  the  result  of 
the  other,  the  acknowledgement  of  his  fault,  and 
the  touching  effort  to  atone,  in  some  way,  for  it. 

One  night,  when  wee  Andrew  was  about  seven 
years  old,  this  wrong  struck  her  in  a  manner  pe- 
culiarly painful.  Andrew  had  made  a  most  ex- 
traordinary journey,  even  as  far  as  Penrith.  A 
large  manufactory  had  been  begun  there,  and  a 
sudden  demand  for  his  long  staple  of  white  wool 
had  sprung  up.  Moreover,  he  had  had  a  pros- 
perous journey,  and  brought  back  with  him  two 
books  for  the  boy,  ^sop's  Fables  and  Robinson 
Crusoe. 

When  Mysie  saw  them,  her  heart  swelled  be- 
yond control.  She  remembered  a  day  when  her 
own  son  Davie  had  begged  for  these  very  books 
and  been  refused  with  hard  rebukes.  She  re- 


248  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

membered  the  old  man's  bitter  words  and  the 
child's  bitter  tears ;  but  she  did  not  reflect  that 
the  present  concession  was  the  result  of  the  for- 
mer refusal,  nor  yet  that  the  books  were  much 
easier  got  and  the  money  more  plentiful  than 
thirty  years  previous.  When  wee  Andrew  ran 
away  with  his  treasures  to  the  Druids'  stones, 
Mysie  went  into  the  shippen,  and  did  her  milk- 
ing to  some  very  sad  thoughts. 

She  was  poisoning  her  heart  with  her  own 
tears.  When  she  returned  to  the  ' '  houseplace  ' ' 
and  saw  the  child  bending  with  rapt,  earnest  face 
over  the  books,  she  could  not  avoid  murmuring 
that  the  son  of  a  strange  woman  should  be  sitting 
happy  in  Cargill  spence,  and  her  own  dear  lad  a 
banished  wanderer.  She  had  come  to  a  point 
when  rebellion  would  be  easy  for  her.  Andrew 
saw  a  look  on  her  face  that  amazed  and  troubled 
him :  and  yet  when  she  sat  so  hopelessly  down  be- 
fore the  fire,  and  without  fear  or  apology 

"  Let  the  tears  downfa'," 

he  had  no  heart  to  reprove  her.  Nay,  he  asked 
with  a  very  unusual  concern,  "What's  the  mat- 
ter, Mysie,  woman?" 

"  I  want  to  see  Da  vie,  and  die,  gudeman !" 
"  You'll  no  dare  to  speak  o'  dying,  wife,  un- 
til the  Lord  gies  you  occasion;  and  Davie  maun 
drink  as  he 's  brewed." 


CAROTIDS  CONFESSION.  249 

"  Nay,  gudeman,  but  you  brewed  for  him;  the 
lad  is  drinking  the  cup  you  mixed  wi'  your  ain 
hands." 

"I  did  my  duty  by  him." 

"  He  had  ower  muckle  o'  your  duty,  and  ower 
little  o'  your  indulgence.  If  Davie  was  wrang, 
ither  folk  werena  right.  Every  fault  has  its  fore- 
fault." 

Andrew  looked  in  amazement  at  this  woman, 
who  for  thirty  and  more  years  had  never  before 
dared  to  oppose  his  wishes,  and  to  whom  his  word 
had  been  law. 

"  Davie' s  wrang-doing  was  weel  kent,  gude- 
wife  ;  he  hasted  to  sin  like  a  moth  to  a  candle. ' ' 

"  It 's  weel  that  our  faults  arena  written  i'  our 
faces. ' ' 

"  I  hae  fallen  on  evil  days,  Mysie;  saxty  years 
syne  wives  and  bairns  werena  sae  contrarie. ' ' 

"There  was  gude  and  bad  then,  as  now,  gude- 
man. ' ' 

Mysie' s  face  had  a  dour,  determined  look  that 
no  one  had  ever  seen  on  it  before.  Andrew  be- 
gan to  feel  irritated  at  her.  "What  do  you  want, 
woman?"  he  said  sternly. 

"  I  want  my  bairn,  Andrew  Cargill." 

"Your  bairn  is  i'  some  far-awa  country, 
squandering  his  share  o'  Paradise  wi'  publicans 

and  sinners." 

32 


25°  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

"  I  hope  not,  I  hope  not;  if  it  werena  for  this 
hope  my  heart  would  break;"  and  then  all  the 
barriers  that  education  and  habit  had  built  were 
suddenly  overthrown  as  by  an  earthquake,  and 
Mysie  cried  out  passionately,  "  I  want  my  bairn, 
Andrew  Cargill!  the  bonnie  bairn  that  lay  on  my 
bosom,  and  was  dandled  on  my  knees,  and  sobbed 
out  his  sorrows  i'  my  arms.  I  want  the  bairn  you 
were  aye  girding  and  grumbling  at !  that  got  the 
rod  for  this,  and  the  hard  word  and  the  black  look 
for  that !  My  bounie  Davie,  wha  ne'er  had  a 
playtime  nor  a  story-book !  O  gudeman,  I  want 
my  bairn!  I  want  my  bairn!" 

The  repressed  passion  and  sorrow  of  ten  long 
years  had  found  an  outlet  and  would  not  be  con- 
trolled. Andrew  laid  down  his  pipe  in  amaze- 
ment and  terror,  and  for  a  moment  he  feared  his 
wife  had  lost  her  senses.  He  had  a  tender  heart 
beneath  his  stern,  grave  manner,  and  his  first  im- 
pulse was  just  to  take  the  sobbing  mother  to  his 
breast  and  promise  her  all  she  asked.  But  he 
did  not  do  it  the  first  moment,  and  he  could  not 
the  second.  Yet  he  did  rise  and  go  to  her,  and  in 
his  awkward  way  try  to  comfort  her.  "  Dinna 
greet  that  way,  Mysie,  woman,"  he  said;  "  if  I 
hae  done  amiss,  I  '11  mak  amends." 

That  was  a  great  thing  for  Andrew  Cargill  to 
say;  Mysie  hardly  knew  how  to  believe  it.  Such 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  251 

a  confession  was  a  kind  of  miracle,  for  she  judged 
things  by  results  and  was  not  given  to  any  con- 
sideration of  the  events  that  led  up  to  them.  She 
could  not  know,  and  did  not  suspect,  that  all  the 
bitter  truths  she  had  spoken  had  been  gradually 
forcing  themselves  on  her  husband's  mind.  She 
did  not  know  that  wee  Andrew's  happy  face  over 
his  story-books,  and  his  eager  claim  for  sympathy, 
had  been  an  accusation  and  a  reproach  which  the 
old  man  had  already  humbly  and  sorrowfully  ac- 
cepted. Therefore  his  confession  and  his  promise 
were  a  wonder  to  the  woman,  who  had  never  be- 
fore dared  to  admit  that  it  was  possible  Andrew 
Cargill  should  do  wrong  in  his  own  household. 


252  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  confidence  that  came  after  this  plain 
speaking  was  very  sweet  and  comforting  to  both, 
although  in  their  isolation  and  ignorance  they 
knew  not  what  steps  to  take  in  order  to  find  Da- 
vie.  Ten  years  had  elapsed  since  he  had  hung 
for  one  heart-breaking  moment  on  his  mother's 
neck,  and  bid,  as  he  told  her,  a  farewell  for  ever 
to  the  miserable  scenes  of  his  hard,  bare  child- 
hood. Mysie  had  not  been  able  to  make  herself 
believe  that  he  was  very  wrong;  dancing  at  pretty 
Mary  Halliday's  bridal  and  singing  two  or  three 
love-songs  did  not  seem  to  the  fond  mother  such 
awful  transgressions  as  the  stern,  strict  Covenant- 
er really  believed  them  to  be,  though  even  Mysie 
was  willing  to  allow  that  Davie,  in  being  be- 
guiled into  such  sinful  folly,  "had  made  a  sair 
tumble." 

However,  Davie  and  his  father  had  both  said 
things  that  neither  could  win  over,  and  the  lad 
had  gone  proudly  down  the  hill  with  but  a  few 
shillings  in  his  pocket.  Since  then  there  had 
been  ten  years  of  anxious,  longing  grief  that  had 
remained  unconfessed  until  this  night.  Now  the 
hearts  of  both  yearned  for  their  lost  son.  But 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  253 

how  should  they  find  him  ?  Andrew  read  noth- 
ing but  his  Bible  and  almanac;  he  had  no  con- 
ception of  the  world  beyond  Kendal  and  Keswick. 
He  could  scarcely  imagine  David  going  beyond 
these  places,  or,  at  any  rate,  the  coast  of  Scotland. 
Should  he  make  a  pilgrimage  round  about  all 
those  parts  ? 

Mysie  shook  her  head.  She  thought  Andrew 
had  better  go  to  Keswick  and  see  the  Methodist 
preacher  there.  She  had  heard  they  travelled 
all  over  the  world,  and  if  so,  it  was  more  than 
likely  they  had  seen  Davie  Cargill ;  "  at  ony  rate, 
he  would  gie  advice  worth  speiring  after. ' ' 

Andrew  had  but  a  light  opinion  of  Methodists, 
and  had  never  been  inside  the  little  chapel  at 
Sinverness;  but  Mysie' s  advice,  he  allowed,  "had 
a  savor  o'  sense  in  it, ' '  and  so  the  next  day  he 
rode  over  to  Keswick  and  opened  his  heart  to 
John  Sugden,  the  superintendent  of  the  Derwent 
Circuit.  He  had  assured  himself  on  the  road  that 
he  would  only  tell  John  just  as  much  as  was  ne- 
cessary for  his  quest;  but  he  was  quite  unable  to 
resist  the  preacher's  hearty  sympathy.  There 
never  were  two  men  more  unlike  than  Andrew 
Cargill  and  John  Sugden,  and  yet  they  loved 
each  other  at  once. 

' '  He  is  a  son  o'  consolation,  and  dootless  ane  o' 
God's  chosen,"  said  Andrew  to  Mysie  on  his  return. 


254  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"  He  is  a  far  nobler  old  fellow  than  he  thinks 
he  is,"  said  John  to  his  wife -when  he  told  her  of 
Andrew's  visit. 

John  had  advised  advertising  for  Davie  in 
"The  Watchman;"  for  John  really  thought  this 
organ  of  the  Methodist  creed  was  the  greatest 
paper  in  existence,  and  honestly  believed  that  if 
Davie  was  anywhere  in  the  civilized  world  "The 
Watchman"  would  find  him  out.  He  was  so 
sure  of  it  that  both  Mysie  and  Andrew  caught  his 
hopeful  tone,  and  began  to  tell  each  other  what 
should  be  done  when  Davie  came  home. 

Poor  Mysie  was  now  doubly  kind  to  wee  An- 
drew. She  accused  herself  bitterly  of  "grudging 
the  bit  lammie  his  story-books,"  and  persuaded 
her  husband  to  bring  back  from  Keswick  for  the 
child  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  and  "The  Young 
Christian."  John  Sugden,  too,  visited  them 
often,  not  only  staying  at  Cargill  during  his  regu- 
lar appointments,  but  often  riding  over  to  take  a 
day's  recreation  with  the  old  Cameronian.  True, 
they  disputed  the  whole  time.  John  said  very 
positive  things  and  Andrew  very  contemptuous 
ones;  but  as  they  each  kept  their  own  opinions 
intact,  and  were  quite  sure  of  their  grounds  for 
doing  so,  no  words  that  were  uttered  ever  slack- 
ened the  grip  of  their  hands  at  parting. 

One  day,  as  John  was  on  the  way  to  Cargill, 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  255 

he  perceived  a  man  sitting  among  the  Druids' 
stones.  The  stranger  was  a  pleasant  fellow,  and 
after  a  few  words  with  the  preacher  he  proposed 
that  they  should  ride  to  Sinverness  together.  John 
soon  got  to  talking  of  Andrew  and  his  lost  son, 
and  the  stranger  became  greatly  interested.  He 
said  he  should  like  to  go  up  to  Andrew's  and 
get  a  description  of  Davie,  adding  that  he  trav- 
elled far  and  wide,  and  might  happen  to  come 
across  him. 

The  old  man  met  them  at  the  door. 

"  My  sight  fails,  John,"  he  said,  "but  I  'd  hae 
kent  your  step  i'  a  thousand.  You  too  are  wel- 
come, sir,  though  I  ken  you  not,  and  doubly  wel- 
come if  you  bring  God's  blessing  wi'  you." 

The  stranger  lifted  his  hat,  and  Andrew  led 
the  way  into  the  house.  John  had  been  expected, 
for  haver  bread  and  potted  shrimps  were  on  the 
table,  and  he  helped  himself  without  ceremony, 
taking  up  at  the  same  time  their  last  argument 
just  where  he  had  dropped  it  at  the  gate  of  the 
lower  croft.  But  it  had  a  singular  interruption. 
The  sheep-dogs  who  had  been  quietly  sleeping 
under  the  settle  began  to  be  strangely  uneasy. 
Keeper  could  scarcely  be  kept  down,  even  by  An- 
drew's command,  and  Sandy  bounded  towards  the 
stranger  with  low,  rapid  barks  that  made  John 
lose  the  sense  of  the  argument  in  a  new  thought. 


256  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

But  before  he  could  frame  it  into  words  Mysie 
came  in. 

"See  here,  John,"  she  cried,  and  then  she 
stopped  and  looked  with  wide-open  eyes  at  the 
man  coming  towards  her.  With  one  long,  thrill- 
ing cry  she  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

' '  Mother  !  mother  !  darling  mother,  forgive 
me!" 

John  had  instantly  gone  to  Andrew's  side,  but 
Andrew  had  risen  at  once  to  the  occasion.  "I'm 
no  a  woman  to  skirl  or  swoon,"  he  said,  almost 
petulantly,  "and  it's  right  and  fit  the  lad  should 
gie  his  mither  the  first  greeting." 

But  he  stretched  out  both  hands,  and  his 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  full  when  Davie 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  beside  him. 

"My  lad  !  my  ain  dear  lad  !"  he  cried,  " I  '11 
see  nae  better  day  than  this  until  I  see  His  face." 

No  one  can  tell  the  joy  of  that  hour.  The 
cheese  curds  were  left  in  the  dairy  and  the  wool 
was  left  at  the  wheel,  and  Mysie  forget  her  house- 
hold, and  Andrew  forgot  his  argument,  and  the 
preacher  at  last  said, 

' '  You  shall  tell  us,  Davie,  what  the  L,ord  has 
done  for  you  since  you  left  your  father's  house." 

' '  He  has  been  gude  to  me,  vera  gude.  I  had 
a  broad  Scot's  tongue  in  my  head,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  go  northward.  I  had  little  siller  and  I 


CONFESSION.  257 

had  to  walk,  and  by  the  time  I  reached  Ecclefech- 
an  I  had  reason  enough  to  be  sorry  for  the  step  I 
had  taken.  As  I  was  sitting  by  the  fireside  o'  the 
little  inn  there  a  man  came  in  who  said  he  was 
going  to  Carlisle  to  hire  a  shepherd.  I  did  not 
like  the  man,  but  I  was  tired  and  had  not  plack 
nor  bawbee,  so  I  e'en  asked  him  for  the  place. 
When  he  heard  I  was  Cumberland  bom,  and  had 
been  among  sheep  all  my  life,  he  was  fain  enough, 
and  we  soon  'greed  about  the  fee. 

' '  He  was  a  harder  master  than  L,aban,  but  he 
had  a  daughter  who  was  as  bonnie  as  Rachel,  and 
I  loved  the  lass  wi'  my  whole  soul,  and  she  loved 
me.  I  ne'er  thought  about  being  her  father's 
hired  man.  I  was  aye  Da  vie  Cargill  to  mysel', 
and  I  had  soon  enough  told  Bessie  all  about  my 
father  and  mither  and  hame.  I  spoke  to  her 
father  at  last,  but  he  wouldna  listen  to  me.  He 
just  ordered  me  off  his  place,  and  Bessie  went  wi' 
me. 

' '  I  know  now  that  we  did  wrang,  but  we 
thought  then  that  we  were  right.  We  had  a  few 
pounds  between  us  and  we  gaed  to  Carlisle.  But 
naething  went  as  it  should  hae  done.  I  could  get 
nae  wark,  and  Bessie  fell  into  vera  bad  health  ; 
but  she  had  a  brave  spirit,  and  she  begged  me  to 
leave  her  in  Carlisle  and  go  my  lane  to  Glasgow. 
4  For  when  wark  an'  siller  arena  i'  one  place,  Da- 
33 


258  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

vie,'  she  said,  'then  they're  safe  to  be  in  an- 
other.' 

"I  swithered  lang  about  leaving  her,  but  a 
good  opportunity  came,  and  Bessie  promised  me 
to  go  back  to  her  father  until  I  could  come  after 
her.  It  was  July  then,  and  when  Christmas  came 
round  I  had  saved  money  enough,  and  I  started 
wi'  a  blithe  heart  to  Ecclefechan.  I  hadna  any 
fear  o'  harm  to  my  bonnie  bit  wifie,  for  she  had 
promised  to  go  to  her  hame,  and  I  was  sure  she 
would  be  rnair  than  welcome  when  she  went  with- 
out me.  I  didna  expect  any  letters,  because  Bes- 
sie couldna  write,  and,  indeed,  I  was  poor  enough 
wi'  my  pen  at  that  time,  and  only  wrote  once  to 
tell  her  I  had  good  wark  and  would  be  for  her  at 
New  Year. 

"But  when  I  went  I  found  that  Bessie  had 
gane,  and  none  knew  where.  I  traced  her  to 
Keswick  poor-house,  where  she  had  a  little  lad; 
the  matron  said  she  went  away  in  a  very  weak 
condition  when  the  child  was  three  weeks  old, 
declaring  that  she  was  going  to  her  friends.  Puir, 
bonnie,  loving  Bessie;  that  was  the  last  I  ever 
heard  o'  my  wife  and  bairn." 

Mysie  had  left  the  room,  and  as  she  returned 
with  a  little  bundle  Andrew  was  anxiously  ask- 
ing, "What  was  the  lassie's  maiden  name,  Da- 
vie?" 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  259 

" Bessie  Dunbar,  father." 

M  Then  this  is  a  wun'erful  day;  we  are  blessed 
and  twice  blessed,  for  I  found  your  wife  and  bairn, 
Davie,  just  where  John  Sugden  found  you,  'mang 
the  Druids'  stanes;  and  the  lad  has  my  ain  honest 
name  and  is  weel  worthy  o'  it." 

' '  See  here,  Davie, ' '  and  Mysie  tenderly 
touched  the  poor  faded  dress  and  shawl,  and  laid 
the  wedding-ring  in  his  palm.  As  she  spoke  wee 
Andrew  came  across  the  yard,  walking  slowly, 
reading  as  he  walked.  ' '  Look  at  him,  Davie ! 
He's  a  bonnie  lad,  and  a  gude  ane;  and  oh,  my 
ain  dear  lad,  he  has  had  a'  things  that  thy  youth 
wanted. ' ' 

It  pleased  the  old  man  no  little  that,  in  spite 
of  his  father's  loving  greeting,  wee  Andrew  stole 
away  to  his  side. 

' '  You  see,  Davie, ' '  he  urged  in  apology, 
"he's  mair  at  hame  like  wi'  me." 

And  then  he  drew  the  child  to  him,  and  let 
his  whole  heart  go  out  now,  without  check  or 
reproach,  to  "  Da  vie' s  bairn." 

' '  But  you  have  not  finished  your  story,  Mr. 
Cargill,"  said  John,  and  David  sighed  as  he  an- 
swered, 

"There  is  naething  by  the  ordinar  in  it.  I 
went  back  to  the  warks  I  had  got  a  footing  in,  the 
Olencart  Iron  Warks,  and  gradually  won  my  way 


26o  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

to  the  topmost  rungs  o'  the  ladder.  I  am  head 
buyer  now,  hae  a  gude  share  i'  the  concern,  and 
i'  money  matters  there's  plenty  folk  waur  off 
than  David  Cargill.  When  I  put  my  father's 
forgiveness,  my  mither's  love,  and  my  Bessie's 
bonnie  lad  to  the  lave,  I  may  weel  say  that  '  they 
are  weel  guided  that  God  guides. '  A  week  ago 
I  went  into  the  editor's  room  o'  the  'Glasgow 
Herald,'  and  the  man  no  being  in  I  lifted  a  paper 
and  saw  in  it  my  father's  message  to  me.  It's 
sma'  credit  that  I  left  a'  and  answered  it. ' ' 

"What  paper,  Mr.  Cargill,  what  paper?" 

"They  ca'  it  'The  Watchman.'  I  hae  it  in 
my  pocket." 

' '  I  thought  so, ' '  said  John  triumphantly. 
"It's  a  grand  paper;  every  one  ought  to  have 
it." 

"It  is  welcome  evermore  in  my  house,"  said 
Davie. 

"It  means  weel,  it  means  weel,"  said  An- 
drew, with  a  great  stretch  of  charity,  ' '  but  I  din- 
na  approve  o'  its  doctrines  at  a',  and — " 

"  It  found  David  for  you,  Andrew." 

"Ay,  ay,  God  uses  a'  kinds  o'  instruments. 
'  The  Watchman '  isna  as  auld  as  the  Bible  yet, 
John,  and  it's  ill  praising  green  barley." 

"Now,  Andrew,  I  think — " 

"Tut,  tut,  John,   I 'se  no  sit   i'   Rome  and 


CARGILI/S  CONFESSION.  261 

strive  wi'  the  pope;  there's  naething  ill  said,  you 
ken,  if  it's  no  ill  taken." 

John  smiled  tolerantly,  and  indeed  there  was 
no  longer  time  for  further  discussion,  for  the  shep- 
herds from  the  hills  and  the  fanners  from  the  glen 
had  heard  of  David's  return,  and  were  hurrying 
to  Cargill  to  see  him.  Mysie  saw  that  there 
would  be  a  goodly  company,  and  the  long  har- 
vest-table was  brought  in  and  a  feast  of  thanks- 
giving spread.  .  Conversation  in  that  house  could 
only  set  one  way,  and  after  all  had  eaten  and 
David  had  told  his  story  again,  one  old  man 
after  another  spoke  of  the  dangers  they  had  en- 
countered and  the  spiritual  foes  they  had  con- 
quered. 

Whether  it  was  the  speaking,  or  the  sympathy 
of  numbers,  or  some  special  influence  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  I  know  not;  but  suddenly  Andrew  lifted 
his  noble  old  head  and  spoke  thus: 

"Frien's,  ye  hae  some  o'  you  said  ill  things 
o'  yoursel's,  but  to  the  sons  o'  God  there  is  nae 
condemnation;  not  that  I  hae  been  althegither 
faultless,  but  I  meant  weel,  an'  the  lad  was  a 
wilfu'  lad,  and  ye  ken  what  the  wisest  o'  men 
said  anent  such.  Just  and  right  has  been  my 
walk  before  you,  but — still — "  Then,  with  a 
sudden  passion,  and  rising  to  his  feet,  he  cried 
out,  "Frien's,  I'm  a  poor  sinfu'  man,  but  I'll 


262  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

play  no  mair  pliskies  wi'  my  conscience.  I  hae 
dootless  been  a  hard  master,  hard  and  stern,  and 
loving  Sinai  far  beyond  Bethlehem.  Hard  was  I 
to  my  lad,  and  hard  hae  I  been  to  the  wife  o'  my 
bosom,  and  hard  hae  I  been  to  my  ain  heart.  It 
has  been  my  ain  will  and  my  ain  way  all  my  life 
lang.  God  forgie  me !  God  forgie  me  !  for  this 
night  he  has  brought  my  sins  to  my  remem- 
brance. I  hae  been  your  elder  for  mair  than 
forty  years,  but  I  hae  ne'er  been  worthy  to  carry 
his  holy  vessels.  I  '11  e'en  sit  i'  the  lo\vest  seat 
henceforward." 

"  Not  so,"  said  John.  And  there  wras  such 
eager  praise,  and  such  warm  love  rose  from  every 
mouth,  that  words  began  to  fail,  and  as  the  old 
man  sat  down  smiling,  happier  than  he  had  ever 
been  before,  song  took  up  the  burden  speech  laid 
down;  for  John  started  one  of  those  old  triumph- 
ant Methodist  hymns,  and  the  rafters  shook  to  the 
melody,  and  the  stars  heard  it,  and  the  angels  in 
heaven  knew  a  deeper  joy.  Singing,  the  com- 
pany departed,  and  Andrew,  standing  in  the 
moonlight  between  David  and  John,  watched  the 
groups  scatter  hither  and  thither,  and  heard,  far 
up  the  hills  and  down  the  glen,  that  sweet,  sweet 
refrain, 

"  Canaan,  bright  Canaan ! 
Will  you  go  to  the  land  of  Canaan  ?" 


CARGILL'S  CONFESSION.  263 

After  this  David  stayed  a  week  at  Glenmora, 
and  then  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  return  to 
Glasgow.  But  wee  Andrew  was  to  have  a  tutor 
and  remain  with  his  grandparents  for  some  years 
at  least.  Andrew  himself  determined  to  "  tak  a 
trip"  and  see  Scotland  and  the  wonderful  iron 
works  of  which  he  was  never  weary  of  hearing 
David  talk. 

When  he  reached  Kendal,  however,  and  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  Caledonian  Railway  and  its 
locomotives,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  go  far- 
ther. 

"It's  ower  like  the  deil  and  the  place  he 
bides  in,  Da  vie,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  horror. 
"  Fire  and  smoke  and  iron  bands  !  I  '11  no  ride 
at  the  deil's  tail-end,  not  e'en  to  see  the  land  o' 
the  Covenant." 

So  he  went  back  to  Glenmora,  and  was  well 
content  when  he  stood  again  at  his  own  door  and 
looked  over  the  bonny  braes  of  Sinverness,  its 
simmering  becks  and  fruitful  vales.  "These 
are  the  warks  o'  His  hands,  Mysie,"  he  said,  rev- 
erently lifting  his  bonnet  and  looking  up  to 
Creffel  and  away  to  Sol  way,  "and  you'd  ken 
that,  woman,  if  you  had  seen  Satan  as  I  saw 
him  rampaging  roun'  far  waur  than  any  roaring 
lion." 

After  this  Andrew  never  left  Sinverness;  but, 


264  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

the  past  unsighed  for  and  the  future  sure,  passed 
through 

" an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 

And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night," 

until,  one  summer  evening,  he  gently  fell  on  that 
sleep  which  God  giveth  his  beloved. 

"  For  such  Death's  portal  opens  not  in  gloom, 
But  its  pure  crystal,  hinged  on  solid  gold, 
Shows  avenues  interminable — shows 
Amaranth  and  palm  quivering  in  sweet  accord 
Of  human  mingled  with  angelic  song." 


One  W 


ron 


34 


ONE  WRONG  STEP. 

CHAPTER   I. 

"THERE'S  few  folk  ken  Ragon  Torr  as  I  do, 
mother.  He  is  better  at  heart  than  thou  wad 
think;  indeed  he  is!" 

"  If  better  were  within,  better  wad  come  out, 
John.  He 's  been  drunk  or  dovering  i'  the  chim- 
ney-corner these  past  three  weeks.  Hech !  but 
he  'd  do  weel  i'  Fool's  Land,  where  they  get  half 
a  crown  a  day  for  sleeping." 

"There's  nane  can  hunt  a  seal  or  spear  a 
whale  like  Ragon;  thou  saw  him  theesel',  mo- 
ther, among  the  last  school  i'  Stromness  Bay." 

"I  saw  a  raving,  ranting  heathen,  wi'  the 
bonnie  blue  bay  a  sea  o'  blood  around  him,  an' 
he  shouting  an'  slaying  like  an  old  pagan  sea- 
king.  Decent,  God-fearing  fisher-folk  do  their 
needful  wark  ither  gate  than  yon.  Now  there  is 
but  one  thing  for  thee  to  do:  thou  must  break  wi' 
Ragon  Torr,  an'  that  quick  an'  soon." 

"Know  this,  my  mother,  a  friend  is  to  be 
taken  wi'  his  faults." 


268  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

"Thou  knows  this,  John:  I  hae  forty  years 
mair  than  thou  hast,  an'  years  ken  mair  than 
books.  An'  wi'  a'  thy  book  skill  hast  thou  ne'er 
read  that  'Bvil  communications  corrupt  gude 
manners'?  Mak  up  thy  mind  that  I  shall  tak  it 
vera  ill  if  thou  sail  again  this  year  wi'  that  born 
heathen;"  and  with  these  words  Dame  Alison 
Sabay  rose  up  from  the  stone  bench  at  her  cot- 
tage door  and  went  dourly  into  the  houseplace. 

John  stood  on  the  little  jetty  which  ran  from 
the  very  doorstep  into  the  bay,  and  looked 
thoughtfully  over  towards  the  sweet  green  isle  of 
Graemsay;  but  neither  the  beauty  of  land  or  sea, 
nor  the  splendor  of  skies  bright  with  the  rosy  ban- 
ners of  the  Aurora  gave  him  any  answer  to  the 
thoughts  which  troubled  him.  "  I  '11  hae  to  talk 
it  o'er  wi'  Christine,"  he  said  decidedly,  and  he 
also  turned  into  the  house. 

Christine  was  ten  years  older  than  her  brother 
John.  She  had  known  much  sorrow,  but  she  had 
lived  through  and  lived  down  all  her  trials  and 
come  out  into  the  peace  on  the  other  side.  She 
was  sitting  by  the  peat  fire  knitting,  and  softly 
crooning  an  old  Scotch  psalm  to  the  click  of  her 
needles.  She  answered  John's  look  with  a  sweet, 
grave  smile,  and  a  slight  nod  towards  the  little 
round  table,  upon  which  there  was  a  plate  of 
smoked  goose  and  some  oaten  cake  for  his  supper. 


ONE   WRONG   STEP.  269 

UI  carena  to  eat  a  bite,  Christine;  this  is 
what  I  want  o'  thee:  the  skiff  is  under  the  win- 
dow; step  into  it,  an'  do  thou  go  on  the  bay  wi' 
rne  an  hour. ' ' 

"  I  havena  any  mind  to  go,  John.  It  is  nine 
by  the  clock,  an'  to-morrow  the  peat  is  to  coil  an' 
the  herring  to  kipper;  yes,  indeed." 

"Well  an'  good.  But  here  is  matter  o'  mair 
account  than  peat  an'  herring.  Wilt  thou 
come?" 

"At  the  end  I  ken  weel  thou  wilt  hae  thy 
way.  Mother,  here  is  John,  an'  he  is  for  my 
going  on  the  bay  wi'  him. ' ' 

4 '  Then  thou  go.  If  John  kept  aye  as  gude 
company  he  wouldna  be  like  to  bring  my  gray 
hairs  wi'  sorrow  to  the  grave." 

John  did  not  answer  this  remark  until  they 
had  pushed  well  off  from  the  sleeping  town,  then 
he  replied  fretfully,  ' '  Yes,  what  mother  says  is 
true  enough ;  but  a  man  goes  into  the  warld.  A' 
the  fingers  are  not  alike,  much  less  one's  friends. 
How  can  a'  be  gude?" 

"To  speak  from  the  heart,  John,  wha  is  it?" 

"Ragon  Torr.  Thou  knows  we  hae  sat  i' 
the  same  boat  an'  drawn  the  same  nets  for  three 
years;  he  is  gude  an'  bad,  like  ither  folk." 

"Keep  gude  company,  my  brother,  an'  thou 
wilt  aye  be  counted  ane  o'  them.  When  Ragon 


2/0  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

is  gude  he  is  ower  glide,  and  when  he  is  bad  he 
is  just  beyont  kenning." 

' '  Can  a  man  help  the  kin  he  comes  o'  ?  Have 
not  his  forbears  done  for  centuries  the  vera  same 
way?  Naething  takes  a  Norseman  frae  his  bed 
or  his  cup  but  some  great  deed  o'  danger  or  profit; 
but  then  wha  can  fight  or  wark  like  them  ?' ' 

"  Christ  doesna  ask  a  man  whether  he  be 
Norse  or  Scot.  If  Ragon  went  mair  to  the  kirk 
an'  less  to  the  change-house,  he  wouldna  need  to 
differ.  Were  not  our  ain  folk  cattle-lifting  Hie- 
land  thieves  lang  after  the  days  o'  the  Cove- 
nant?" 

"Christine,  ye '11  speak  nae  wrang  o'  the 
Sabays.  It's  an  ill  bird  'files  its  ain  nest." 

' '  Weel,  weel,  John  !  The  gude  name  o'  the 
Sabays  is  i'  thy  hands  now.  But  to  speak  from 
the  heart,  this  thing  touches  thee  nearer  than 
Ragon  Torr.  Thou  did  not  bring  me  out  to 
speak  only  o'  him." 

"Thou  art  a  wise  woman,  Christine,  an'  thou 
art  right.  It  touches  Margaret  Fae,  an'  when 
it  does  that,  it  touches  what  is  dearer  to  me  than 
life." 

"I  see  it  not." 

"Do  not  Ragon  an'  I  sail  i'  Peter  Fae's  boats? 
Do  we  not  eat  at  his  table,  an'  bide  round  his 
house  during  the  whole  fishing  season?  If  I 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  2/1 

sail  no  more  wi'  Ragon,  I  must  quit  Peter's 
employ;  for  he  loves  Ragon  as  he  loves  no  ither 
lad  i'  Stromness  or  Kirkwall.  The  Norse  blood 
we  think  little  o',  Peter  glories  in;  an'  the  twa 
men  count  thegither  o'er  their  glasses  the  races 
o'  the  Vikings,  an'  their  ain  generations  up  to 
Snorro  an'  Thorso." 

u  Is  there  no  ither  master  but  Peter  Fae?  ask 
theesel'  that  question,  John." 

' '  I  hae  done  that,  Christine.  Plenty  o'  mas- 
ters, but  nane  o'  them  hae  Margaret  for  a  daugh- 
ter. Christine,  I  love  Margaret,  an'  she  loves 
me  weel.  Thou  hast  loved  theesel',  my  sister." 

"I  ken  that,  John,"  she  said  tenderly;  "I  hae 
loved,  therefore  I  hae  got  beyont  doots,  an' 
learned  something  holier  than  my  ain  way.  Thou 
trust  Margaret  now.  Thou  say  ( Yes '  to  thy 
mother,  an'  fear  not." 

"Christine  thou  speaks  hard  words." 

( '  Was  it  to  speak  easy  anes  thou  brought  me 
here?  An'  if  I  said,  'I  counsel  thee  to  tak 
thy  ain  will  i'  the  matter,'  wad  my  counsel  mak 
bad  gude,  or  wrang  right?  Paul  Calder's  fleet 
sails  i'  twa  days;  seek  a  place  i'  his  boats." 

' '  Then  I  shall  see  next  to  naught  o'  Margaret, 
an'  Ragon  will  see  her  every  day." 

u  If  Margaret  loves  thee,  that  can  do  thee  nae 
harm,. ' ' 


2J2,  SCOTTISH    SKETCHES. 

' '  But  her  father  favors  Ragon,  an'  of  ine  he 
thinks  nae  mair  than  o'  the  nets,  or  aught  else 
that  finds  his  boats  for  sea." 

"Well  an'  good;  but  no  talking  can  alter 
facts.  Thou  must  now  choose  atween  thy  mo- 
ther an'  Margaret  Fae,  atween  right  an'  wrang. 
God  doesna  leave  that  choice  i'  the  dark;  thy 
way  may  be  narrow  an'  unpleasant,  but  it  is 
clear  enough.  Dost  thou  fear  to  walk  i'  it?" 

"There  hae  been  words  mair  than  plenty, 
Christine.  Let  us  go  hame." 

Silently  the  little  boat  drifted  across  the 
smooth  bay,  and  silently  the  brother  and  sister 
stood  a  moment  looking  up  the  empty,  flagged 
street  of  the  sleeping  town.  The  strange  light, 
which  was  neither  gloaming  nor  dawning,  but  a 
mixture  of  both,  the  waving  boreal  banners,  the 
queer  houses,  gray  with  the  storms  of  centuries, 
the  brown  undulating  heaths,  and  the  phosphor- 
escent sea,  made  a  strangely  solemn  picture  which 
sank  deep  into  their  hearts.  After  a  pause, 
Christine  went  into  the  house,  but  John  sat  down 
on  the  stone  bench  to  think  over  the  alternatives 
before  him. 

Now  the  power  of  training  up  a  child  in  the 
way  it  should  go  asserted  itself.  It  became  at 
once  a  fortification  against  self-will.  John  never 
had  positively  disobeyed  his  mother's  explicit 


ONE   WRONG   STEP.  273 

commands;  he  found  it  impossible  to  do  so.  He 
must  offer  his  services  to  Paul  Calder  in  the 
morning,  and  try  to  trust  Margaret  Fae's  love  for 
him. 

He  had  determined  now  to  do  right,  but  he 
did  not  do  it  very  pleasantly — it  is  a  rare  soul 
that  grows  sweeter  in  disappointments.  Both 
mother  and  sister  knew  from  John's  stern,  silent 
ways  that  he  had  chosen  the  path  of  duty,  and 
they  expected  that  he  would  make  it  a  valley  of 
Baca.  This  Dame  Alison  accepted  as  in  some 
sort  her  desert.  "I  ought  to  hae  forbid  the  lad 
three  years  syne,"  she  said  regretfully;  "aft  ill 
an'  sorrow  come  o'  sich  sinfu'  putting  aff.  There's 
nae  half-way  house  atween  right  an'  wrang." 

Certainly  the  determination  involved  some 
unpleasant  explanations  to  John.  He  must  first 
see  old  Peter  Fae  and  withdraw  himself  from  his 
service.  He  found  him  busy  in  loading  a  small 
vessel  with  smoked  geese  and  kippered  fish,  and 
he  was  apparently  in  a  very  great  passion.  Be- 
fore John  could  mention  his  own  matters,  Peter 
burst  into  a  torrent  of  invectives  against  another 
of  his  sailors,  who,  he  said,  had  given  some  infor- 
mation to  the  Excise  which  had  cost  him  a  whole 
cargo  of  Dutch  specialties.  The  culprit  was 
leaning  against  a  hogshead,  and  was  listening  to 
Peter's  intemperate  words  with  a  very  evil  smile. 

35 


274  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

"How  much  did  ye  sell  yoursel'  for,  Sandy 
Beg?  It  took  the  son  of  a  Hieland  robber  like 
you  to  tell  tales  of  a  honest  man's  cargo.  It  was 
an  ill  day  when  the  Scots  cam  to  Orkney,  I 
trow." 

"She '11  hae  petter  right  to  say  tat  same  'fore 
lang  time."  And  Sandy's  face  was  dark  with 
a  subdued  passion  that  Peter  might  have  known 
to  be  dangerous,  but  which  he  continued  to  ag- 
gravate by  contemptuous  expressions  regarding 
Scotchmen  in  general. 

This  John  Sabay  was  in  no  mood  to  bear;  he 
very  soon  took  offence  at  Peter's  sweeping  abuse, 
and  said  he  would  relieve  him  at  any  rate  of  one 
Scot.  "He  didna  care  to  sail  again  wi'  such  a 
crowd  as  Peter  gathered  round  him." 

It  was  a  very  unadvised  speech.  Ragon  lifted 
it  at  once,  and  in  the  words  which  followed  John 
unavoidably  found  himself  associated  with  Sandy 
Beg,  a  man  whose  character  was  of  the  lowest 
order.  And  he  had  meant  to  be  so  temperate, 
and  to  part  with  both  Peter  and  Ragon  on  the 
best  terms  possible.  How  weak  are  all  our  reso- 
lutions! John  turned  away  from  Peter's  store 
conscious  that  he  had  given  full  sway  to  all  the 
irritation  and  disappointment  of  his  feelings,  and 
that  he  had  spoken  as  violently  as  either  Peter, 
Ragon,  or  even  the  half-brutal  Sandy  Beg.  In- 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  275 

deed,  Sandy  had  said  very  little;  but  the  malig- 
nant look  with  which  he  regarded  Peter,  John 
could  never  forget. 

This  was  not  his  only  annoyance.  Paul  Cal- 
der's  boats  were  fully  manned,  and  the  others  had 
already  left  for  Brassey's  Sound.  The  Sabays 
were  not  rich;  a  few  weeks  of  idleness  would 
make  the  long  Orkney  winter  a  dreary  prospect. 
Christine  and  his  mother  sat  from  morning  to 
night  braiding  straw  into  the  once  famous  Ork- 
ney Tuscans,  and  he  went  to  the  peat-moss  to 
cut  a  good  stock  of  winter  fuel;  but  his  earnings 
in  money  were  small  and  precarious,  and  he  was 
so  anxious  that  Christine's  constant  cheerfulness 
hurt  him. 

Sandy  Beg  had  indeed  said  something  of  an 
offer  he  could  make  "  if  shentlemans  wanted  goot 
wages  wi'  ta  chance  of  a  lucky  bit  for  themsel's; 
foive  kuineas  ta  month  an'  ta  affsets.  Oigh ! 
oigh !"  But  John  had  met  the  offer  with  such 
scorn  and  anger  that  Sandy  had  thought  it  worth 
while  to  bestow  one  of  his  most  wicked  looks 
upon  him.  The  fact  was,  Sandy  felt  half  grate- 
ful to  John  for  his  apparent  partisanship,  and 
John  indignantly  resented  any  disposition  to  put 
him  in  the  same  boat  with  a  man  so  generally 
suspected  and  disliked. 

"It  might  be  a  come-down,"  he  said,  "for  a 


276  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

gude  sailor  an'  fisher  to  coil  peats  and  do  days' 
darg,  but  it  was  honest  labor;  an',  please  God, 
he  'd  never  do  that  i'  the  week  that  wad  hinder 
him  fra  going  to  the  kirk  on  Sabbath." 

"Oigh!  she'll  jist  please  hersel';  she'll  pe 
owing  ta  Beg  naething  by  ta  next  new  moon." 
And  with  a  mocking  laugh  Sandy  loitered  away 
towards  the  seashore. 


ONE  WRONG   STEP.  277 


CHAPTER   II. 

JUST  after  this  interview  a  little  lad  put  a  note 
in  John's  hand  from  Margaret  Fae.  It  only  asked 
him  to  be  on  Brogar  Bridge  at  eight  o'clock  that 
night.  Now  Brogar  Bridge  was  not  a  spot  that 
any  Orcadian  cared  to  visit  at  such  an  hour.  In 
the  pagan  temple  whose  remains  stood  there  it 
was  said  pale  ghosts  of  white-robed  priests  still 
offered  up  shadowy  human  sacrifices,  and  though 
John's  faith  was  firm  and  sure,  superstitions  are 
beyond  reasoning  with,  and  he  recalled  the  eerie, 
weird  aspect  of  the  grim  stones  with  an  unavoid- 
able apprehension.  What  could  Margaret  want 
with  him  in  such  a  place  and  at  an  hour  so  near 
that  at  which  Peter  usually  went  home  from  his 
shop?  He  had  never  seen  Margaret's  writing, 
and  he  half  suspected  Sandy  Beg  had  more  to  do 
with  the  appointment  than  she  had;  but  he  was 
too  anxious  to  justify  himself  in  Margaret's  eyes 
to  let  any  fears  or  doubts  prevent  him  from  keep- 
ing the  tryst. 

He  had  scarcely  reached  the  Stones  of  S ten- 
nis when  he  saw  her  leaning  against  one  of  them. 
The  strange  western  light  was  over  her  thought- 
ful face.  She  seemed  to  have  become  a  part  of 


2/8  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

the  still  and  solemn  landscape.  John  had  always 
loved  her  with  a  species  of  reverence;  to-night  he 
felt  almost  afraid  of  her  beauty  and  the  power  she 
had  over  him.  She  was  a  true  Scandinavian, 
with  the  tall,  slender,  and  rather  haughty  form 
which  marks  Orcadian  and  Zetland  women.  Her 
hair  was  perhaps  a  little  too  fair  and  cold,  and 
yet  it  made  a  noble  setting  to  the  large,  finely- 
featured,  tranquil  face. 

She  put  out  her  hand  as  John  approached,  and 
said,  "Was  it  well  that  thou  shouldst  quarrel  with 
iny  father?  I  thought  that  thou  didst  love  me." 

Then  John  poured  out  his  whole  heart — his 
love  for  her,  his  mother's  demand  of  him,  his 
quarrel  with  Ragon  and  Peter  and  Sandy  Beg. 
4 'It  has  been  an  ill  time,  Margaret,"  he  said, 
"and  thou  hast  been  long  in  comforting  me." 

Well,  Margaret  had  plenty  of  reasons  for  her 
delay  and  plenty  of  comfort  for  her  lover.  Natu- 
rally slow  of  pulse  and  speech,  she  had  been  long 
coming  to  a  conclusion ;  but,  having  satisfied  her- 
self of  its  justice,  she  was  likely  to  be  immovable 
in  it.  She  gave  John  her  hand  frankly  and  lov- 
ingly, and  promised,  in  poverty  or  wealth,  in 
weal  or  woe,  to  stand  truly  by  his  side.  It  was 
not  a  very  hopeful  troth -plighting,  but  they  were 
both  sure  of  the  foundations  of  their  love,  and 
both  regarded  the  promise  as  solemnly  binding. 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  279 

Then  Margaret  told  John  that  she  had  heard 
that  evening  that  the  captain  of  the  Wick  steam- 
er wanted  a  mate,  and  the  rough  Pentland  Frith 
being  well  known  to  John,  she  hoped,  if  he  made 
immediate  application,  he  would  be  accepted.  If 
he  was,  John  declared  his  intention  of  at  once 
seeing  Peter  and  asking  his  consent  to  their  en- 
gagement. In  the  meantime  the  Bridge  of  Bro- 
gar  was  to  be  their  tryst,  when  tryst  was  possible. 
Peter's  summer  dwelling  lay  not  far  from  it,  and 
it  was  Margaret's  habit  to  watch  for  his  boat  and 
walk  up  from  the  beach  to  the  house  with  him. 
She  would  always  walk  over  first  to  Brogar,  and 
if  John  could  meet  her  there  that  would  be  well ; 
if  not,  she  would  understand  that  it  was  out  of  the 
way  of  duty,  and  be  content. 

John  fortunately  secured  the  mate's  place. 
Before  he  could  tell  Margaret  this  she  heard  her 
father  speak  well  of  him  to  the  captain.  "  There 
is  nae  better  sailor,  nor  better  lad,  for  that  mat- 
ter," said  Peter.  "  I  like  none  that  he  wad  hang 
roun'  my  bonnie  Marg'et;  but  then,  a  cat  may 
look  at  a  king  without  it  being  high  treason,  I 
wot." 

A  week  afterwards  Peter  thought  differently. 
When  John  told  him  honestly  how  matters  stood 
between  him  and  Margaret  he  was  more  angry 
than  when  Sandy  Beg  swore  away  his  whole 


280  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Dutch  cargo.  He  would  listen  to  neither  love 
nor  reason,  and  positively  forbid  him  to  hold  any 
further  intercourse  with  his  daughter.  John  had 
expected  this,  and  was  not  greatly  discouraged. 
He  had  Margaret's  promise.  Youth  is  hopeful, 
and  they  could  wait ;  for  it  never  entered  their 
minds  absolutely  to  disobey  the  old  man. 

In  the  meantime  there  was  a  kind  of  peace- 
making between  Ragon  and  John.  The  good 
Dominie  Sinclair  had  met  them  both  one  day  on 
the  beach,  and  insisted  on  their  forgiving  and 
shaking  hands.  Neither  of  them  were  sorry  to  do 
so.  Men  who  have  shared  the  dangers  of  the 
deep-sea  fishing  and  the  stormy  Northern  Ocean 
together  cannot  look  upon  each  other  as  mere 
parts  of  a  bargain.  There  was,  too,  a  wild  valor 
and  a  wonderful  power  in  emergencies  belonging 
to  Ragon  that  had  always  dazzled  John's  more 
cautious  nature.  In  some  respects,  he  thought 
Ragon  Torr  the  greatest  sailor  that  left  Stromness 
harbor,  and  Ragon  was  willing  enough  to  admit 
that  John  "was  a  fine  fellow,"  and  to  give  his 
hand  at  the  dominie's  direction. 

Alas!  the  good  man's  peacemaking  was  of 
short  duration.  As  soon  as  Peter  told  the  young 
Norse  sailor  of  John's  offer  for  Margaret's  hand, 
Ragon' s  passive  good-will  turned  to  active  dislike 
and  bitter  jealousy.  For,  though  he  had  taken 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  281 

little  trouble  to  please  Margaret,  he  had  come  to 
look  upon  her  as  his  future  wife.  He  knew  that 
Peter  wished  it  so,  and  he  now  imagined  that  it 
was  also  the  only  thing  on  earth  he  cared  for. 

Thus,  though  John  was  getting  good  wages, 
he  was  not  happy.  It  was  rarely  he  got  a  word 
with  Margaret,  and  Peter  and  Ragon  were  only 
too  ready  to  speak.  It  became  daily  more  and 
more  difficult  to  avoid  an  open  quarrel  with  them, 
and,  indeed,  on  several  occasions  sharp,  cruel 
words,  that  hurt  like  wounds,  had  passed  between 
them  on  the  public  streets  and  quays. 

Thus  Stromness,  that  used  to  be  so  pleasant  to 
him,  was  changing  fast.  He  knew  not  how  it 
was  that  people  so  readily  believed  him  in  the 
wrong.  In  Wick,  too,  he  had  been  troubled  with 
Sandy  Beg,  and  a  kind  of  nameless  dread  pos- 
sessed him  about  the  man ;  he  could  not  get  rid  of 
it,  even  after  he  had  heard  that  Sandy  had  sailed 
in  a  whaling  ship  for  the  Arctic  seas. 

Thus  things  went  on  until  the  end  of  July. 
John  was  engaged  now  until  the  steamer  stopped 
running  in  September,  and  the  little  sum  of  ready 
money  necessary  for  the  winter's  comfort  was  as- 
sured. Christine  sat  singing  and  knitting,  or 
singing  and  braiding  straw,  and  Dame  Alison 
wrent  up  and  down  her  cottage  with  a  glad  heart. 
They  knew  little  of  John's  anxieties.  Christine 
36 


282  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

had  listened  sympathizingly  to  his  trouble  about 
Margaret,  and  said,  "Thou  wait  an'  trust,  John 
dear,  an'  at  the  end  a'  things  will  be  well. ' '  Even 
Ragon's  ill-will  and  Peter's  ill  words  had  not 
greatly  frightened  them — "  The  wrath  o'  man 
shall  praise  Him,"  read  old  Alison,  with  just  a 
touch  of  spiritual  satisfaction,  uan'  the  rest  o'  the 
wrath  he  will  restrain." 


ONE   WkONG  STEP.  383 


CHAPTER   II. 

IT  was  a  Saturday  night  in  the  beginning  of 
August,  and  John  was  at  home  until  the  follow- 
ing Monday.  He  dressed  himself  and  went  out 
towards  Brogar,  and  Christine  watched  him  far 
over  the  western  moor,  and  blessed  him  as  he 
went.  He  had  not  seen  Margaret  for  many  days, 
but  he  had  a  feeling  to-night  that  she  would  be 
able  to  keep  her  tryst.  And  there,  standing  amid 
the  rushes  on  the  lakeside,  he  found  her.  They 
had  so  much  to  say  to  each  other  that  Margaret 
forgot  her  father's  return,  and  delayed  so  long 
that  she  thought  it  best  to  go  straight  home,  in- 
stead of  walking  down  the  beach  to  meet  him. 

He  generally  left  Stromness  about  half-past 
eight,  and  his  supper  was  laid  for  nine  o'clock. 
But  this  night  nine  passed,  and  he  did  not  come; 
and  though  the  delay  could  be  accounted  for  in 
various  ways,  she  had  a  dim  but  anxious  forecast- 
ing of  calamity  in  her  heart.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  little  parlor  grew  sorrowful  and  heavy,  the 
lamp  did  not  seem  to  light  it,  her  father's  chair 
had  a  deserted,  lonely  aspect,  the  house  was 
strangely  silent;  in  fifteen  minutes  she  had  for- 
gotten how  happy  she  had  been,  and  wandered  to 


284  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

and  from  the  door  like  some  soul  in  an  uneasy 
dream. 

All  at  once  she  heard  the  far-away  shouting 
of  angry  and  alarmed  voices,  and  to  her  sensitive 
ears  her  lover's  and  her  father's  names  were  min- 
gled. It  was  her  nature  to  act  slowly;  for  a  few 
moments  she  could  not  decide  what  was  to  be 
done.  The  first  thought  was  the  servants.  There 
were  only  two,  Hacon  Flett  and  Gerda  Vedder. 
Gerda  had  gone  to  bed,  Hacon  was  not  on  the 
place.  As  she  gathered  her  energies  together  she 
began  to  walk  rapidly  over  the  springy  heath 
towards  the  white  sands  of  the  beach.  Her 
father,  if  he  was  coming,  would  come  that  way. 
She  was  angry  with  herself  for  the  if.  Of  course 
he  was  coming.  What  was  there  to  prevent  it  ? 
She  told  herself,  Nothing,  and  the  next  moment 
looked  up  and  saw  two  men  coming  towards  her, 
and  in  their  arms  a  figure  which  she  knew  in- 
stinctively was  her  father's. 

She  slowly  retraced  her  steps,  set  open  the 
gate  and  the  door,  and  waited  for  the  grief  that 
was  coming  to  her.  But  however  slow  her  rea- 
soning faculties,  her  soul  knew  in  a  moment  what 
it  needed.  It  was  but  a  little  prayer  said  with 
trembling  lips  and  fainting  heart;  but  no  prayer 
loses  its  way.  Straight  to  the  heart  of  Christ  it 
went.  And  the  answer  was  there  and  the  strength 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  285 

waiting  when  Ragon  and  Hacon  brought  in  the 
bleeding,  dying  old  man,  and  laid  him  down  upon 
his  parlor  floor. 

Ragon  said  but  one  word,  "Stabbed!"  and 
then,  turning  to  Hacon,  bid  him  ride  for  life  and 
death  into  Stromness  for  a  doctor.  Most  sailors 
of  these  islands  know  a  little  rude  surgery,  and 
Ragon  stayed  beside  his  friend,  doing  what  he 
could  to  relieve  the  worst  symptoms.  Margaret, 
white  and  still,  went  hither  and  thither,  bringing 
whatever  Ragon  wanted,  and  fearing,  she  knew 
not  why,  to  ask  any  questions. 

With  the  doctor  came  the  dominie  and  two  of 
the  town  bailies.  There  was  little  need  of  the 
doctor;  Peter  Fae's  life  was  ebbing  rapidly  away 
with  every  moment  of  time.  There  was  but  lit- 
tle time  now  for  whatever  had  yet  to  be  done. 
The  dominie  stooped  first  to  his  ear,  and  in  a  few 
solemn  words  bid  him  lay  himself  at  the  foot  of 
the  cross.  u Thou 'It  never  perish  there,  Peter," 
he  said ;  and  the  dying  man  seemed  to  catch 
something  of  the  comfort  of  such  an  assurance. 

Then  Bailie  Inkster  said,  '  *  Peter  Fac,  before 
God  an'  his  minister — before  twa  o'  the  town  bai- 
lies an'  thy  ain  daughter  Margaret,  an'  thy  friend 
Ragon  Torr,  an'  thy  servants  Hacon  Flett  an' 
Gerda  Vedder,  thou  art  now  to  say  wrhat  man 
stabbed  thee." 


286  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Peter  made  one  desperate  effort,  a  wild,  pas- 
sionate gleam  shot  from  the  suddenly-opened 
eyes,  and  he  cried  out  in  a  voice  terrible  in  its 
despairing  anger,  ' '  Jolin  Sabay !  JoJm  Sabay — 
stabb-ed — me  !  Indeed — he — did  /' ' 

"Oh,  forgive  him,  man!  forgive  him!  Dinna 
think  o'  that  now,  Peter !  Cling  to  the  cross- 
cling  to  the  cross,  man  !  Nane  ever  perished 
that  only  won  to  the  foot  o'  it."  Then  the  plead- 
ing words  were  whispered  down  into  fast-sealing 
ears,  and  the  doctor  quietly  led  away  a  poor 
heart-stricken  girl,  who  was  too  shocked  to  weep 
and  too  humbled  and  wretched  to  tell  her  sorrow 
to  any  one  but  God. 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  287 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  bailies,  after  hearing  the  deposition,  im- 
mediately repaired  to  John  Sabay's  cottage.  It 
was  Saturday  night,  and  no  warrant  could  now 
be  got,  but  the  murderer  must  be  secured.  No 
two  men  bent  on  such  an  errand  ever  found  it 
more  difficult  to  execute.  The  little  family  had 
sat  later  than  usual.  John  had  always  news  they 
were  eager  to  hear — of  tourists  and  strangers  he 
had  seen  in  Wick,  or  of  the  people  the  steamer 
had  brought  to  Kirkwall. 

He  was  particularly  cheerful  this  evening;  his 
interview  with  Margaret  had  been  hopeful  and 
pleasant,  and  Christine  had  given  the  houseplace 
and  the  humble  supper-table  quite  a  festival  look. 
They  had  sat  so  long  over  the  meal  that  when 
the  bailies  entered  John  was  only  then  reading 
the  regular  portion  for  the  evening  exercise.  All 
were  a  little  amazed  at  the  visit,  but  no  one 
thought  for  a  moment  of  interrupting  the  Scrip- 
ture; and  the  two  men  sat  down  and  listened  at- 
tentively while  John  finished  the  chapter. 

Bailie  Tulloch  then  rose  and  went  towards  the 
dame.  He  was  a  far-off  cousin  of  the  Sabays, 
and,  though  not  on  the  best  of  terms  with  them, 


288  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

his  relationship  was  considered  to  impose  the  duty 
particularly  on  him. 

uGude-e'en,  if  thou  comes  on  a  gude  errand," 
said  old  Dame  Alison,  suspiciously;  "but  that's 
no  thy  custom,  bailie." 

"I  came,  dame,  to  ask  John  anent  Peter 
Fae." 

The  dame  laughed  pleasantly.  ' '  If  thou  had 
asked  him  anent  Margaret  Fae,  he  could  tell  thee 
more  about  it." 

"This  is  nae  laughing  matter,  dame.  Peter 
Fae  has  been  murdered — yes,  murdered  !  An'  he 
said,  ere  he  died,  that  John  Sabay  did  the 
deed." 

' '  Then  Peter  Fae  died  wi'  a  lie  on  his  lips — 
tell  them  that,  John,"  and  the  old  woman's  face 
was  almost  majestic  in  its  defiance  and  anger. 

"I  hae  not  seen  Peter  Fae  for  a  week,"  said 
John.  "God  knows  that,  bailie.  I  wad  be  the 
vera  last  man  to  hurt  a  hair  o'  his  gray  head;  why 
he  is  Margaret's  father !" 

"Still,  John,  though  we  hae  nae  warrant  to 
hold  thee,  we  are  beholden  to  do  sae;  an'  thou 
maun  come  wi'  us,"  said  Bailie  Inkster. 

"  Wrang  has  nae  warrant  at  ony  time,  an'  ye 
will  no  touch  my  lad,"  said  Alison,  rising  and 
standing  before  her  son. 

"  Come,  dame,  keep  a  still  tongue." 


ONE  WRONG  STKP.  289 

"My  tongue's  no  under  thy  belt,  Tulloch ; 
but  it's  weel  kenned  that  since  thou  wranged  us 
thou  ne'er  liked  us." 

"Mother,  mother,  dinna  fash  theesel'.  It's 
naught  at  a'  but  a  mistake;  an'  I'll  gae  wi'  Bai- 
lie Inkster,  if  he  's  feared  to  tak  my  word." 

' '  I  could  tak  thy  word  fain  enough,  John — ' ' 

'  But  the  thing  isna  possible,  Inkster.  Be- 
sides, if  he  were  missing  Monday  morn,  I,  being 
i'  some  sort  a  relation,  wad  be  under  suspicion  o' 
helping  him  awa." 

"  Naebody  wad  e'er  suspect  thee  o'  a  helping 
or  mercifu'  deed,  Tulloch.  Indeed  na  !" 

' '  Tak  care,  dame ;  thou  art  admitting  it  wad 
be  a  mercifu'  deed.  I  heard  Peter  Fae  say  that 
John  Sabay  stabbed  him,  an'  Ragon  Torr  and 
Hacon  Flett  saw  John,  as  I  understan'  the  mat- 
ter." 

' '  Mother, ' '  said  John,  ' '  do  thou  talk  to  nane 
but  God.  Thou  wilt  hae  to  lead  the  prayer  thee- 
sel' to-night;  dinna  forget  me.  I'm  as  innocent 
o'  this  matter  as  Christine  is;  mak  up  thy  mind 
on  that." 

"God  go  wi'  thee,  John.  A'  the  men  i'  Ork- 
ney can  do  nae  mair  than  they  may  against 
thee." 

"It's  an  unco  grief  an'  shame  to  me,"  said 
Tulloch,  "but  the  Sabays  hae  aye  been  a  thorn  i' 

37 


290  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

the  flesh  to  me,  an'  John 's  the  last  o'  them,  the 
lasto'  them!" 

"Thou  art  makin'  thy  count  without  Provi- 
dence, Tulloch.  There's  mair  Sabays  than  Tul- 
lochs;  for  there's  Ane  for  them  that  counts  far 
beyont  an'  above  a'  that  can  be  against  them. 
Now,  thou  step  aff  my  honest  hearthstane — there- 
is  mair  room  for  thee  without  than  within. ' ' 

Then  John  held  his  mother's  and  sister's  hands 
a  moment,  and  there  was  such  virtue  in  the  clasp, 
and  such  light  and  trust  in  their  faces,  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  not  to  catch  hope  from  them. 
Suddenly  Bailie  Tulloch  noticed  that  John  was  in 
his  Sabbath-day  clothes.  In  itself  this  was  not 
remarkable  on  a  Saturday  night.  Most  of  the 
people  kept  this  evening  as  a  kind  of  preparation 
for  the  Holy  Day,  and  the  best  clothing  and  the 
festival  meal  were  very  general.  But  just  then  it 
struck  the  bailies  as  worth  inquiring  about. 

"Where  are  thy  warking-claes,  John  —  the 
uniform,  I  mean,  o'  that  steamship  company  thou 
sails  for — and  why  hast  na  them  on  thee?" 

"  I  had  a  visit  to  mak,  an'  I  put  on  my  best  to 
mak  it  in.  The  ithers  are  i'  my  room." 

"Get  them,  Christine." 

Christine  returned  in  a  few  minutes  pale- 
faced  and  empty-handed.  ' '  They  are  not  there, 
John,  nor  yet  i'  thy  kist." 


ONE  WRONG   STEP. 

"I  thought  sae." 

"Then  God  help  me,  sister!  I  know  not 
where  they  are." 

Even  Bailie  Inkster  looked  doubtful  and  trou- 
bled at  this  circumstance.  Silence,  cold  and  sus- 
picious, fell  upon  them,  and  poor  John  went 
away  half-bereft  of  all  the  comfort  his  mother's 
trust  and  Christine's  look  had  given  him. 

The  next  day  being  Sabbath,  no  one  felt  at 
liberty  to  discuss  the  subject;  but  as  the  little 
groups  passed  one  another  on  their  way  to  church 
their  solemn  looks  and  their  doleful  shakes  of  the 
head  testified  to  its  presence  in  their  thoughts. 
The  dominie  indeed,  knowing  how  nearly  impos- 
sible it  would  be  for  them  not  to  think  their  own 
thoughts  this  Lord's  day,  deemed  it  best  to  guide 
those  thoughts  to  charity.  Pie  begged  every  one 
to  be  kind  to  all  in  deep  affliction,  and  to  think 
no  evil  until  it  was  positively  known  who  the 
guilty  person  was. 

Indeed,  in  spite  of  the  almost  overwhelming 
evidence  against  John  Sabay,  there  was  a  strong 
disposition  to  believe  him  innocent.  "If  ye 
believe  a'  ye  hear,  ye  may  eat  a'  ye  see,"  said 
Geordie  Sweyn.  "  Maybe  John  Sabay  killed  old 
Peter  Fae,  but  every  maybe  has  a  may-not-be." 
And  to  this  remark  there  were  more  nods  of  ap- 
proval than  shakes  of  dissent. 


SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

But  affairs,  even  with  this  gleam  of  light, 
were  dark  enough  to  the  sorrowful  family. 
John's  wages  had  stopped,  and  the  winter  fuel 
was  not  yet  all  cut.  A  lawyer  had  to  be  pro- 
cured, and  they  must  mortgage  their  little  cot- 
tage to  do  it;  and  although  ten  days  had  passed, 
Margaret  Fae  had  not  shown,  either  by  word  or 
deed,  what  was  her  opinion  regarding  John's 
guilt  or  innocence. 

But  Margaret,  as  before  said,  was  naturally 
slow  in  all  her  movements,  so  slow  that  even 
Scotch  caution  had  begun  to  call  her  cruel  or 
careless.  But  this  was  a  great  injustice.  She 
had  weighed  carefully  in  her  own  mind  every- 
thing against  John,  and  put  beside  it  his  own 
letter  to  her  and  her  intimate  knowledge  of  his 
character,  and  then  solemnly  sat  down  in  God's 
presence  to  take  such  counsel  as  he  should  put 
into  her  heart.  After  many  prayerful,  waiting 
days  she  reached  a  conclusion  which  was  satisfac- 
tory to  herself;  and  she  then  put  away  from  her 
every  doubt  of  John's  innocence,  and  resolved  on 
the  course  to  be  pursued. 

In  the  first  place  she  would  need  money  to 
clear  the  guiltless  and  to  seek  the  guilty,  and  she 
resolved  to  continue  her  father's  business.  She 
had  assisted  him  so  long  with  his  accounts  that 
his  methods  were  quite  familiar  to  her;  all  she 


ONE  WRONG  STEP. 

needed  was  some  one  to  handle  the  rough  goods, 
and  stand  between  her  and  the  rude  sailors  with 
whom  the  business  was  mainly  conducted. 

Who  was  this  to  be  ?  Ragon  Torr  ?  She  was 
sure  Ragon  would  have  been  her  father's  choice. 
He  had  taken  all  charge  of  the  funeral,  and  had 
since  hung  round  the  house,  ready  at  any  moment 
to  do  her  service.  But  Ragon  would  testify 
against  John  Sabay,  and  she  had  besides  an  un- 
accountable antipathy  to  his  having  any  nearer 
relation  with  her.  "I'll  ask  Geordie  Sweyn," 
she  said,  after  a  long  consultation  with  her  own 
slow  but  sure  reasoning  powers;  "  he  '11  keep  the 
skippers  an'  farmers  i'  awe  o'  him;  an'  he's  just 
as  honest  as  any  ither  man." 

So  Geordie  was  sent  for  and  the  proposal  made 
and  accepted.  ' '  Thou  wilt  surely  be  true  to  me, 
Geordie?" 

"  As  sure  as  death,  Miss  Margaret;"  and  when 
he  gave  her  his  great  brawny  hand  on  it,  she 
knew  her  affairs  in  that  direction  were  safe. 

Next  morning  the  shop  was  opened  as  usual, 
and  Geordie  Sweyn  stood  in  Peter  Fae's  place. 
The  arrangement  had  been  finally  made  so  rap- 
idly that  it  had  taken  all  Stromness  by  surprise. 
But  no  one  said  anything  against  it;  many  be- 
lieved it  to  be  wisely  done,  and  those  who  did 
not,  hardly  cared  to  express  dissatisfaction  with  a 


294  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

man  whose  personal  prowess  and  ready  hand  were 
so  well  known. 

The  same  day  Christine  received  a  very  sis- 
terly letter  from  Margaret,  begging  her  to  come 
and  talk  matters  over  with  her.  There  were  such 
obvious  reasons  why  Margaret  could  not  go  to 
Christine,  that  the  latter  readily  complied  with 
the  request;  and  such  was  the  influence  that  this 
calm,  cool,  earnest  girl  had  over  the  elder  woman, 
that  she  not  only  prevailed  upon  her  to  accept 
money  to  fee  the  lawyer  in  John's  defence,  but 
also  whatever  was  necessary  for  their  comfort 
during  the  approaching  winter.  Thus  Christine 
and  Margaret  mutually  strengthened  each  other, 
and  both  cottage  and  prison  were  always  the  bet- 
ter for  every  meeting. 


ONE   WRONG  STEP. 


CHAPTER   V. 

BUT  soon  the  summer  passed  away,  and  the 
storms  and  snows  of  winter  swept  over  the  lonely 
island.  There  would  be  no  court  until  Decem- 
ber to  try  John,  and  his  imprisonment  in  Kirk- 
wall  jail  grew  every  day  more  dreary.  But  no 
storms  kept  Christine  long  away  from  him.  Over 
almost  impassable  roads  and  mosses  she  made  her 
way  on  the  little  ponies  of  the  country,  which 
had  to  perform  a  constant  steeple-chase  over  the 
bogs  and  chasms. 

All  things  may  be  borne  when  they  are  sure; 
and  every  one  who  loved  John  was  glad  when 
at  last  he  could  have  a  fair  hearing.  Nothing 
however  was  in  his  favor.  The  bailies  and  the 
murdered  man's  servants,  even  the  dominie  and 
his  daughter  could  tell  but  one  tale.  "Peter 
Fae  had  declared  with  his  last  breath  that  John 
Sabay  had  stabbed  him."  The  prosecution  also 
brought  forward  strong  evidence  to  show  that 
very  bitter  words  had  passed,  a  few  days  before 
the  murder,  between  the  prisoner  and  the  mur- 
dered man. 

In  the  sifting  of  this  evidence  other  points 
were  brought  out,  still  more  convincing.  Hacon 


296  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

Flett  said  that  he  was  walking  to  Stromness  by 
the  beach  to  meet  his  sweetheart,  when  he  heard 
the  cry  of  murder,  and  in  the  gloaming  light  saw 
John  Sabay  distinctly  running  across  the  moor. 
When  asked  how  he  knew  certainly  that  it  was 
John,  he  said  that  he  knew  him  by  his  peculiar 
dress,  its  bright  buttons,  and  the  glimmer  of  gold 
braid  on  his  cap.  He  said  also,  in  a  very  decided 
manner,  that  John  Sabay  passed  Ragon  Torr  so 
closely  that  he  supposed  they  had  spoken. 

Then  Ragon  being  put  upon  his  oath,  and 
asked  solemnly  to  declare  who  was  the  man  that 
had  thus  passed  him,  tremblingly  answered, 

"John  Sabay!" 

John  gave  him  such  a  look  as  might  well 
haunt  a  guilty  soul  through  all  eternity;  and  old 
Dame  Alison,  roused  by  a  sense  of  intolerable 
wrong,  cried  out, 

"Know  this,  there's  a  day  coming  that  will 
show  the  black  heart;  but  traitors'  words  ne'er 
yet  hurt  the  honest  cause." 

"  Peace,  woman  !"  said  an  officer  of  the  court, 
not  unkindly. 

"Weel,  then,  God  speak  for  me!  an'  my 
thoughts  are  free;  if  I  daurna  say,  I  may  think." 

In  defence  Margaret  Fae  swore  that  she  had 
been  with  John  on  Brogar  Bridge  until  nearly 
time  to  meet  her  father,  and  that  John  then  wore 


ONE   WRONG   STKP.  297 

a  black  broadcloth  suit  and  a  high  hat;  further- 
more, that  she  believed  it  utterly  impossible  for 
him  to  have  gone  home,  changed  his  clothes,  and 
then  reached  the  scene  of  the  murder  at  the  time 
Hacon  Flett  and  Ragon  Torr  swore  to  his  appear- 
ance there. 

But  watches  were  very  uncommon  then;  no 
one  of  the  witnesses  had  any  very  distinct  idea  of 
the  time;  some  of  them  varied  as  much  as  an 
hour  in  their  estimate.  It  was  also  suggested  by 
the  prosecution  that  John  probably  had  the  other 
suit  secreted  near  the  scene  of  the  murder.  Cer- 
tain it  was  that  he  had  not  been  able  either  to 
produce  it  or  to  account  for  its  mysterious  disap- 
pearance. 

The  probability  of  Sandy  Beg  being  the  mur- 
derer was  then  advanced;  but  Sandy  was  known 
to  have  sailed  in  a  whaling  vessel  before  the  mur- 
der, and  no  one  had  seen  him  in  Stromness  since 
his  departure  for  Wick  after  his  dismissal  from 
Peter  Fae's  service. 

No  one  ?  Yes,  some  one  had  seen  him.  That 
fatal  night,  as  Ragon  Torr  was  crossing  the  moor 
to  Peter's  house — he  having  some  news  of  a  very 
particular  vessel  to  give — he  heard  the  cry  of 
"Murder,"  and  he  heard  Hacon  Flett  call  out, 
"I  know  thee,  John  Sabay.  Thou  hast  stabbed 
my  master !"  and  he  instantly  put  himself  in  the 

38 


298  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

way  of  the  flying  man.  Then  he  knew  at  once 
that  it  was  Sandy  Beg  in  John  Sabay's  clothes. 
The  two  men  looked  a  moment  in  each  other's 
face,  and  Sandy  saw  in  Ragon's  something  that 
made  him  say, 

"  She  '11  pat  Sandy  safe  ta  night,  an'  that  will 
mak  her  shure  o'  ta  lass  she  's  seeking  far." 

There  was  no  time  for  parley;  Ragon's  evil 
nature  was  strongest,  and  he  answered,  ' '  There 
is  a  cellar  below  my  house,  thou  knows  it  weel." 

Indeed,  most  of  the  houses  in  Stromness  had 
underground  passages,  and  places  of  concealment 
used  for  smuggling  purposes,  and  Ragon's  lonely 
house  was  a  favorite  rendezvous.  The  vessel 
whose  arrival  he  had  been  going  to  inform  Peter 
of  was  a  craft  not  likely  to  come  into  Stromness 
with  all  her  cargo. 

Towards  morning  Ragon  had  managed  to  see 
Sandy  and  send  him  out  to  her  with  such  a  mes- 
sage as  insured  her  rapid  disappearance.  Sandy 
had  also  with  him  a  sum  of  money  which  he 
promised  to  use  in  transporting  himself  at  once  to 
India,  where  he  had  a  cousin  in  the  forty-second 
Highland  regiment. 

Ragon  had  not  at  first  intended  to  positively 
swear  away  his  friend's  life;  he  had  been  driven 
to  it,  not  only  by  Margaret's  growing  antipathy 
to  him  and  her  decided  interest  in  John's  case 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  299 

and  family,  but  also  by  that  mysterious  power  of 
events  which  enable  the  devil  to  forge  the  whole 
chain  that  binds  a  man  when  the  first  link  is 
given  him.  But  the  word  once  said,  he  adhered 
positively  to  it,  and  even  asserted  it  with  quite 
unnecessary  vehemence  and  persistence. 

After  such  testimony  there  was  but  one  ver- 
dict possible.  John  Sabay  was  declared  guilty  of 
murder,  and  sentenced  to  death.  But  there  was 
still  the  same  strange  and  unreasonable  belief  in 
his  innocence,  and  the  judge,  with  a  peculiar 
stretch  of  clemency,  ordered  the  sentence  to  be 
suspended  until  he  could  recommend  the  prisoner 
to  his  majesty's  mercy. 

A  remarkable  change  now  came  over  Dame 
Alison.  Her  anger,  her  sense  of  wrong,  her  im- 
patience, were  over.  She  had  come  now  to  where 
she  could  do  nothing  else  but  trust  implicitly  in 
God;  and  her  mind,  being  thus  stayed,  was  kept 
in  a  strange  exultant  kind  of  perfect  peace.  Lost 
confidence  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Both  Christine  and 
her  mother  had  reached  a  point  where  they  knew 

"  That  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God, 

And  right  the  day  must  win ; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 
To  falter  would  be  sin." 


30O  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SLOWLY  the  weary  winter  passed  away.  And 
just  as  spring  was  opening  there  began  to  be 
talk  of  Ragon  Torr's  going  away.  Margaret 
continued  to  refuse  his  addresses  with  a  scorn  he 
found  it  ill  to  bear;  and  he  noticed  that  many  of 
his  old  acquaintances  dropped  away  from  him. 
There  is  a  distinct  atmosphere  about  every  man, 
and  the  atmosphere  about  Ragon  people  began  to 
avoid.  No  one  could  have  given  a  very  clear 
reason  for  doing  so;  one  man  did  not  ask  another 
why;  but  the  fact  needed  no  reasoning  about,  it 
was  there. 

One  day,  when  Paul  Calder  was  making  up 
his  spring  cargoes,  Ragon  asked  for  a  boat,  and 
being  a  skilful  sailor,  he  was  accepted.  But  no 
sooner  was  the  thing  known,  than  Paul  had  to 
seek  another  crew. 

"  What  was  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing;  they  did  not  care  to  sail  with  Ra- 
gon Torr,  that  was  all." 

This  circumstance  annoyed  Ragon  very  much. 
He  went  home  quite  determined  to  leave  Strom- 
ness  at  once  and  for  ever.  Indeed  he  had  been 
longing  to  do  so  for  many  weeks,  but  had  stayed 


ONE  WRONG   STEP.  3OI 

partly  out  of  bravado,  and  partly  because  there 
were  few  opportunities  of  getting  away  during 
the  winter. 

He  went  home  and  shut  himself  in  his  own 
room,  and  began  to  count  his  hoarded  gold. 
While  thus  employed,  there  was  a  stir  or  move- 
ment under  his  feet  which  he  quite  understood. 
Some  one  was  in  the  secret  cellar,  and  was  com- 
ing up.  He  turned  hastily  round,  and  there  was 
Sandy  Beg. 

"  Thou  scoundrel !"  and  he  fairly  gnashed  his 
teeth  at  the  intruder,  "what  dost  thou  want 
here?" 

"  She  '11  be  wanting  money  an'  help." 

Badly  enough  Sandy  wanted  both ;  and  a 
dreadful  story  he  told.  He  had  indeed  engaged 
himself  at  Wick  for  a  whaling  voyage,  but  at  the 
last  moment  had  changed  his  mind  and  deserted. 
For  somewhere  among  the  wilds  of  Rhiconich  in 
Sutherland  he  had  a  mother,  a  wild,  supersti- 
tious, half-heathen  Highland  woman,  and  he 
wanted  to  see  her.  Coming  back  to  the  coast, 
after  his  visit,  he  had  stopped  a  night  at  a  little 
wayside  inn,  and  hearing  some  drovers  talking  of 
their  gold  in  Gallic,  a  language  which  he  well 
understood,  he  had  followed  them  into  the  wild 
pass  of  Gualon,  and  there  shot  them  from  behind 
a  rock.  For  this  murder  he  had  been  tracked, 


302  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

and  was  now  so  closely  pursued  that  lie  had 
bribed  with  all  the  gold  he  had  a  passing  fishing- 
smack  to  drop  him  at  Stromness  during  the  night. 

"She'll  gae  awa  now  ta  some  ither  place; 
'teet  will  she !  An'  she 's  hungry — an'  unco 
dry;"  all  of  which  Sandy  emphasised  by  a  des- 
perate and  very  evil  look. 

The  man  was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  Ra- 
gon  knew  that  he  was  in  his  power.  If  Sandy 
was  taken,  he  would  confess  all,  and  Ragon  knew 
well  that  in  such  case  transportation  for  life  and 
hard  labor  would  be  his  lot.  Other  considerations 
pressed  him  heavily — the  shame,  the  loss,  the 
scorn  of  Margaret,  the  triumph  of  all  his  ill- 
wishers.  No,  he  had  gone  too  far  to  retreat. 

He  fed  the  villain,  gave  him  a  suit  of  his  own 
clothes,  and  ,£50,  and  saw  him  put  off  to  sea. 
Sandy  promised  to  keep  well  out  in  the  bay,  un- 
til some  vessel  going  North  to  Zetland  or  Iceland, 
or  some  Dutch  skipper  bound  for  Amsterdam,  took 
him  up.  All  the  next  day  Ragon  was  in  misery, 
but  nightfall  came  and  he  had  heard  nothing  of 
Sandy,  though  several  craft  had  come  into  port. 
If  another  day  got  over  he  would  feel  safe;  but  he 
told  himself  that  he  was  in  a  gradually  narrowing 
circle,  and  that  the  sooner  he  leaped  outside  of  it 
the  better. 

When  he  reached  home  the  old  couple  who 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  303 

hung  about  the  place,  and  who  had  learned  to  see 
nothing  and  to  hear  nothing,  came  to  him  and 
voluntarily  offered  a  remark. 

' '  Queer  folk  an'  strange  folk  have  been  here, 
an'  ta'en  awa  some  claes  out  o'  the  cellar." 

Ragon  asked  no  questions.  He  knew  what 
clothes  they  were — that  suit  of  John  Sabay's  in 
which  Sandy  Beg  had  killed  Peter  Fae,  and  the 
rags  which  Sandy  had  a  few  hours  before  ex- 
changed for  one  of  his  own  sailing-suits.  He 
needed  no  one  to  tell  him  what  had  happened. 
Sandy  had  undoubtedly  bespoke  the  very  vessel 
containing  the  officers  in  search  of  him,  and  had 
confessed  all,  as  he  said  he  would.  The  men 
were  probably  at  this  moment  looking  for  him. 

He  lifted  the  gold  prepared  for  any  such  emer- 
gency, and,  loosening  his  boat,  pulled  for  life  and 
death  towards  Mayness  Isle.  Once  in  the  rapid 
"race"  that  divides  it  and  Olla  from  the  ocean, 
he  knew  no  boat  would  dare  to  follow  him. 
While  yet  a  mile  from  it  he  saw  that  he  was  rap- 
idly pursued  by  a  four-oared  boat.  Now  all  his 
wild  Norse  nature  asserted  itself.  He  forgot 
everything  but  that  he  was  eluding  his  pursuers, 
and  as  the  chase  grew  hotter,  closer,  more  exci- 
ting, his  enthusiasm  carried  him  far  beyond  all 
prudence. 

He  began  to  shout  or  chant  to  his  wild  efforts 


304  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

some  old  Norse  death -song,  and  just  as  they 
gained  on  him  he  shot  into  the  "race"  and  de- 
fied them.  Oars  were  useless  there,  and  they 
watched  him  fling  them  far  away  and  stand  up 
with  outstretched  arms  in  the  little  skiff.  The 
wraves  tossed  it  hither  and  thither,  the  boiling, 
racing  flood  hurried  it  with  terrific  force  towards 
the  ocean.  The  tall,  massive  figure  swayed  like 
a  reed  in  a  tempest,  and  suddenly  the  half  des- 
pairing, half  defying  song  was  lost  in  the  roar  of 
the  bleak,  green  surges.  All  knew  then  what 
had  happened. 

' '  Let  me  die  the  death  o'  the  righteous, ' '  mur- 
mured one  old  man,  piously  veiling  his  eyes  with 
his  bonnet ;  and  then  the  boat  turned  and  went 
silently  back  to  Stromness. 

Sandy  Beg  was  in  Kirkwall  jail.  He  had 
made  a  clean  breast  of  all  his  crimes,  and  meas- 
ures were  rapidly  taken  for  John  Sabay's  enlarge- 
ment and  justification.  When  he  came  out  of 
prison  Christine  and  Margaret  were  waiting  for 
him,  and  it  was  to  Margaret's  comfortable  home 
he  was  taken  to  see  his  mother.  ' '  For  we  are 
ane  household  now,  John,"  she  said  tenderly, 
"an'  Christine  an'  mother  will  ne'er  leave  me 
any  mair." 

Sandy's  trial  came  on  at  the  summer  term. 
He  was  convicted  on  his  own  confession,  and  sen- 


ONE  WRONG  STEP.  305 

tenced  to  suffer  the  penalty  of  his  crime  upon  the 
spot  where  he  stabbed  Peter  Fae.  For  some  time 
he  sulkily  rejected  all  John's  efforts  to  mitigate 
his  present  condition,  or  to  prepare  him  for  his 
future.  But  at  last  the  tender  spot  in  his  heart 
was  found.  John  discovered  his  affection  for  his 
half-savage  mother,  and  promised  to  provide  for 
all  her  necessities. 

"It's  only  ta  poun'  o'  taa,  an'  ta  bit  cabin  ta 
shelter  her  she'll  want  at  a',"  but  the  tears  fell 
heavily  on  the  red,  hairy  hands;  "an'  she'll  na 
tell  her  fat  ill  outsent  cam  to  puir  Sandy." 

{ '  Thou  kens  I  will  gie  her  a'  she  needs,  an'  if 
she  chooses  to  come  to  Orkney — " 

"  Na,  na,  she  wullna  leave  ta  Hieland  hills 
for  naught  at  a'." 

' '  Then  she  shall  hae  a  siller  crown  for  every 
month  o'  the  year,  Sandy. ' ' 

The  poor,  rude  creature  hardly  knew  how  to 
say  a  "thanks;"  but  John  saw  it  in  his  glisten- 
ing eyes  and  heard  it  in  the  softly-muttered 
words,  "She  was  ta  only  ane  tat  e'er  caret  for 
Santy  Beg." 

It  was  a  solemn  day  in  Stromness  when  he 
went  to  the  gallows.  The  bells  tolled  backward, 
the  stores  were  all  closed,  and  there  were  prayers 
both  in  public  and  private  for  the  dying  criminal. 
But  few  dared  to  look  upon  the  awful  expiation, 

39 


306  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

and  John  spent  the  hour  in  such  deep  communion 
with  God  and  his  own  soul  that  its  influence 
walked  with  him  to  the  end  of  life. 

And  when  his  own  sons  were  grown  up  to 
youths,  one  bound  for  the  sea  and  the  other  for 
Marischal  College,  Aberdeen,  he  took  them  aside 
and  told  them  this  story,  adding, 

( '  An'  know  this,  my  lads :  the  shame  an'  the 
sorrow  cam  a'  o'  ane  thing — I  made  light  o'  my 
mother's  counsel,  an'  thought  I  could  do  what 
nane  hae  ever  done,  gather  mysel'  with  the  deil's 
journeymen,  an'  yet  escape  the  wages  o'  sin. 
Lads  !  lads  !  there 's  nae  half-way  house  at  ween 
right  and  wrang;  know  that." 

"But,  my  father,"  said  Hamish,  the  younger 
of  the  two,  "thou  did  at  the  last  obey  thy  mo- 
ther." 

"Ay,  ay,  Hamish;  but  mak  up  thy  mind  to 
this:  it  isna  enough  that  a  man  rins  a  gude  race; 
he  maun  also  start  at  the  right  time.  This  is  what 
I  say  to  thee,  Hamish,  an'  to  thee,  Donald:  fear 
God,  an'  ne'er  lightly  heed  a  gude  mother's  ad- 
vice. It's  weel  wi'  the  lads  that  carry  a  mother's 
blessing  through  the  warld  wi'  them." 


Lile  Davis. 


LILE   DAVIE 


IN  Yorkshire  and  Lancashire  the  word  ulile" 
means  "little,"  but  in  the  Cumberland  dales  it 
has  a  far  wider  and  nobler  definition.  There  it  is 
a  term  of  honor,  of  endearment,  of  trust,  and  of 
approbation.  David  Denton  won  the  pleasant 
little  prefix  before  he  was  ten  years  old.  When 
he  saved  little  Willy  Sabay  out  of  the  cold  waters 
of  Thirlmere,  the  villagers  dubbed  him  u  Lile 
Davie."  When  he  took  a  flogging  to  spare  the 
crippled  lad  of  Farmer  Grimsby,  men  and  women 
said  proudly,  "  He  were  a  lile  lad;"  and  when  he 
gave  up  his  rare  half-holiday  to  help  the  widow 
Gates  glean,  they  had  still  no  higher  word  of 
praise  than  "kind  lile  Davie." 

However,  it  often  happens  that  a  prophet  has 
no  honor  among  his  own  people,  and  David  was 
the  black  sheep  of  the  miserly  household  of 
Denton  Farm.  It  consisted  of  old  Christopher 
Denton,  his  three  sons,  Matthew,  Sam,  and  Da- 
vid, and  his  daughter  Jennie.  They  had  the  rep- 
utation of  being  "people  well-to-do,"  but  they 


310  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

were  not  liked  among  the  Cumberland  "states- 
men," who  had  small  sympathy  for  their  nig- 
gardly hospitality  and  petty  deeds  of  injustice. 

One  night  in  early  autumn  Christopher  was 
sitting  at  the  great  black  oak  table  counting  over 
the  proceeds  of  the  Kendal  market,  and  Matt  and 
Sam  looked  greedily  on.  There  was  some  dis- 
pute about  the  wool  and  the  number  of  sheep, 
and  Matt  said  angrily,  "There's  surnmat  got  to 
be  done  about  Davie.  He's  just  a  clish-ma- 
saunter,  lying  among  the  ling  wi'  a  book  in  his 
hand  the  lee-long  day.  It  is  just  miff-mafF  and 
nonsense  letting  him  go  any  longer  to  the  school- 
master. I  am  fair  jagged  out  wi'  his  ways." 

1  'That's  so,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  why  don't  you  gie  the  lad  a  licking, 
and  make  him  mind  the  sheep  better  ?  I  saw  him 
last  Saturday  playing  sogers  down  at  Thirlston 
with  a  score  or  more  of  idle  lads  like  himsel'." 
The  old  man  spoke  irritably,  and  looked  round 
for  the  culprit.  "I'll  lay  thee  a  penny  he's  at 
the  same  game  now.  Gie  him  a  licking  when  he 
comes  in,  son  Matt." 

"Nay,  but  Matt  wont,"  said  Jennie  Den  ton, 
with  a  quiet  decision.  She  stood  at  her  big 
wheel,  spinning  busily,  though  it  was  nine 
o'clock  ;  and  though  her  words  were  few  and 
quiet,  the  men  knew  from  her  face  and  manner 


ULE   DA  VIE.  311 

that  Davie's  licking  would  not  be  easily  accom- 
plished. In  fact,  Jennie  habitually  stood  between 
Davie  and  his  father  and  brothers.  She  had 
nursed  him  through  a  motherless  babyhood,  and 
had  always  sympathized  in  his  eager  efforts  to 
rise  above  the  sordid  life  that  encompassed  him. 
It  was  Jennie  who  had  got  him  the  grudging  per- 
mission to  go  in  the  evening  to  the  village  school- 
master for  some  book-learning.  But  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances had  favored  her  in  this  matter,  for  nei- 
ther the  old  man  nor  his  sons  could  read  or  write, 
and  they  had  begun  to  find  this,  in  their  changed 
position,  and  in  the  rapid  growth  of  general  in- 
formation, a  serious  drawback  in  business  mat- 
ters. 

Therefore,  as  Davie  could  not  be  spared  in  the 
day,  the  schoolmaster  agreed  for  a  few  shillings  a 
quarter  to  teach  him  in  the  evening.  This  ar- 
rangement altered  the  lad's  whole  life.  He  soon 
mastered  the  simple  branches  he  had  been  sent  to 
acquire,  and  then  master  and  pupil  far  outstepped 
old  Christopher's  programme,  and  in  the  long 
snowy  nights,  and  in  the  balmy  summer  ones, 
pored  with  glowing  cheeks  over  old  histories  and 
wonderful  lives  of  great  soldiers  and  sailors. 

In  fact,  David  Denton,  like  most  good  sons, 
had  a  great  deal  of  his  mother  in  him,  and  she  had 
been  the  daughter  of  a  long  line  of  brave  West- 


312  SCOTTISH  SKETCHES. 

moreland  troopers.  The  inherited  tendencies 
which  had  passed  over  the  elder  boys  asserted 
themselves  with  threefold  force  in  this  last  child 
of  a  dying  woman.  And  among  the  sheepcotes 
in  the  hills  he  felt  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  men 
who  had  defied  Cromwell  on  the  banks  of  the 
Kent  and  followed  Prince  Charlie  to  Preston. 

But  the  stern  discipline  of  a  Cumberland 
states-man's  family  is  not  easily  broken.  Long 
after  David  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  a  soldier 
he  continued  to  bear  the  cuffs  and  sneers  and 
drudgery  that  fell  to  him,  watching  eagerly  for 
some  opportunity  of  securing  his  father's  permis- 
sion. But  of  this  there  was  little  hope.  His 
knowledge  of  writing  and  accounts  had  become 
of  service,  and  his  wish  to  go  into  the  world  and 
desert  the  great  cause  of  the  Denton  economies 
was  an  unheard-of  piece  of  treason  and  ingrati- 
tude. 

David  ventured  to  say  that  he  "had  taught 
Jennie  to  write  and  count,  and  she  was  willing  to 
do  his  work." 

The  ignorant,  loutish  brothers  scorned  the  idea 
of  "  women-folk  meddling  wi'  their  'counts  and 
wool,"  and,  "besides,"  as  Matt  argued,  "  Da- 
vie's  going  would  necessitate  the  hiring  of  two 
shepherds;  no  hired  man  would  do  more  than  half 
of  what  folk  did  for  their  ain." 


DAVIE.  313 

These  disputes  grew  more  frequent  and  more 
angry,  and  when  Davie  had  added  to  all  his  other 
faults  the  unpardonable  one  of  falling  in  love  with 
the  schoolmaster's  niece,  there  was  felt  to  be  no 
hope  for  the  lad.  The  Dentons  had  no  poor  rela- 
tions ;  they  regarded  them  as  the  one  thing  not 
needful,  and  they  concluded  it  was  better  to  give 
Davie  a  commission  and  send  him  away. 

Poor  Jennie  did  all  the  mourning  for  the  lad ; 
his  father  and  brothers  were  in  the  midst  of  a  new 
experiment  for  making  wool  water -proof,  and 
pretty  Mary  Butterworth  did  not  love  David  as 
David  wished  her  to  love  him.  It  was  Jennie 
only  who  hung  weeping  on  his  neck  and  watched 
him  walk  proudly  and  sorrowfully  away  over  the 
hills  into  the  wide,  wide  world  beyond. 

Then  for  many,  many  long  years  no  more  was 
heard  of  "  L,ile  Davie  Den  ton."  The  old  school- 
master died  and  Christopher  followed  him.  But 
the  Denton  brothers  remained  together.  How- 
ever, when  men  make  saving  money  the  sole  end 
of  their  existence,  their  life  soon  becomes  as  un- 
interesting as  the  multiplication  table,  and  people 
ceased  to  care  about  the  Denton  farm,  especially 
as  Jennie  married  a  wealthy  squire  over  the  moun- 
tains, and  left  her  brothers  to  work  out  alone  their 
new  devices  and  economies. 

Jennie's  marriage  was  a  happy  one,  but  she 
40 


314  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

did  not  forget  her  brother.  There  was  in  Bsth- 
waite  Grange  a  young  man  who  bore  his  name 
and  who  was  preparing  for  a  like  career.  And 
often  Jennie  Bsthwaite  told  to  the  lads  and  lasses 
around  her  knees  the  story  of  their  "lile  uncle," 
whom  every  one  but  his  own  kin  had  loved,  and 
who  had  gone  away  to  the  Indies  and  never  come 
back  again.  "Lile  Da  vie"  was  the  one  bit  of 
romance  in  Esthwaite  Grange. 

Jennie's  brothers  had  never  been  across  the 
"fells"  that  divided  Den  ton  from  Bsthwaite; 
therefore,  one  morning,  twenty-seven  years  after 
Davie's  departure,  she  was  astonished  to  see  Matt 
coming  slowly  down  the  Bsthwaite  side.  But 
she  met  him  with  hearty  kindness,  and  after  he 
had  been  rested  and  refreshed  he  took  a  letter 
from  his  pocket  and  said,  "Jennie,  this  came 
from  Davie  six  months  syne,  but  I  thought  then 
it  would  be  seeking  trouble  to  answer  it. ' ' 

"Why,  Matt,  this  letter  is  directed  to  me! 
How  dared  you  open  and  keep  it?" 

"Dared,  indeed!  That's  a  nice  way  for  a 
woman  to  speak  to  her  eldest  brother  !  Read  it, 
and  then  you  '11  see  why  I  kept  it  from  you." 

Poor  Jennie's  eyes  filled  fuller  at  every  line. 
He  was  sick  and  wounded  and  coming  home  to 
die,  and  wanted  to  see  his  old  home  and  friends 
once  more. 


315 

"O  Matt!  Matt!"  she  cried;  "how  cruel, 
how  shameful,  not  to  answer  this  appeal." 

"Well,  I  did  it  for  the  best;  but  it  seems  I 
have  made  a  mistake.  Sam  and  I  both  thought 
an  ailing  body  dovering  round  the  hearthstone 
and  doorstone  was  not  to  be  thought  of — and 
nobody  to  do  a  hand's  turn  but  old  Elsie,  who  is 
nearly  blind — and  Da  vie  never  was  one  to  do  a 
decent  hand  job,  let  by  it  was  herding  sheep,  and 
that  it  was  not  like  he'd  be  fit  for;  so  we  just 
agreed  to  let  the  matter  lie  where  it  was." 

"Oh,  it  was  a  cruel  shame,  Matt." 

"Well,  it  was  a  mistake;  for  yesterday  Sam 
went  to  Kendall,  and  there,  in  the  Stramon-gate, 
he  met  Tom  Philipson,  who  is  just  home  from 
India.  And  what  does  Tom  say  but,  '  Have  you 
seen  the  general  yet?'  and,  'Great  man  is  Gen. 
Denton,'  and,  'Is  it  true  that  he  is  going  to 
buy  the  Derwent  estate?'  and,  'Wont  the  In- 
dian Government  miss  Gen.  Denton !'  Sam 
wasn't  going  to  let  Tom  see  how  the  land  lay, 
and  Tom  went  off  saying  that  Sam  had  no  call 
to  be  so  pesky  proud;  that  it  wasn't  him  who 
had  conquered  the  Mahrattas  and  taken  the  Ghiz- 
nee  Pass." 

Jennie  was  crying  bitterly,  and  saying  softly 
to  herself,  "O  my  brave  laddie!  O  my  bonnie 
lile  Davie  !" 


316  SCOTTISH    SKETCHES. 

"Hush,  woman  !  No  good  comes  of  crying. 
Write  now  as  soon  as  you  like,  and  the  sooner 
the  better." 

In  a  very  few  hours  Jennie  had  acted  on  this 
advice,  and,  though  the  writing  and  spelling 
were  wonderful,  the  poor  sick  general,  nursing 
himself  at  the  Bath  waters,  felt  the  love  that 
spoke  in  every  word.  He  had  not  expected 
much  from  his  brothers;  it  was  Jennie  and  Jen- 
nie's bairns  he  wanted  to  see.  He  was  soon  after- 
wards an  honored  guest  in  Esthwaite  Grange,  and 
the  handsome  old  soldier,  riding  slowly  among 
the  lovely  dales,  surrounded  by  his  nephews  and 
nieces,  became  a  well-known  sight  to  the  villages 
around. 

Many  in  Thirlston  remembered  him,  and 
none  of  his  old  companions  found  themselves 
forgotten.  Nor  did  he  neglect  his  brothers. 
These  cautious  men  had  become  of  late  years 
manufacturers,  and  it  was  said  were  growing 
fabulously  rich.  They  had  learned  the  value  of 
the  low  coppice  woods  on  their  fell-side,  and  had 
started  a  bobbin-mill  which  Sam  superintended, 
while  Matt  was  on  constant  duty  at  the  great 
steam-mill  on  Milloch-Force,  where  he  spun  his 
own  wools  into  blankets  and  serges. 

The  men  were  not  insensible  to  the  honor  of 
their  brother's  career;  they  made  great  capital 


DA  VIE.  317 

of  it  privately.  But  they  were  also  intensely 
dissatisfied  at  the  reckless  way  in  which  he  spent 
his  wealth.  Young  David  Esthwaite  had  joined 
a  crack  regiment  with  his  uncle's  introduction 
and  at  his  uncle's  charges,  and  Jennie  and  Mary 
Esthwaite  had  been  what  the  brothers  considered 
extravagantly  dowered  in  order  that  they  might 
marry  two  poor  clergymen  whom  they  had  set 
their  hearts  on. 

"It  is  just  sinful,  giving  women  that  much 
good  gold, ' '  said  Matt  angrily :  ' '  and  here  we  are 
needing  it  to  keep  a  great  business  afloat. ' ' 

It  was  the  first  time  Matt  had  dared  to  hint 
that  the  mill  under  his  care  was  not  making 
money,  and  he  was  terribly  shocked  when  Sam 
made  a  similar  confession.  In  fact,  the  brothers, 
with  all  their  cleverness  and  industry,  were  so 
ignorant  that  they  were  necessarily  at  the  mercy 
of  those  they  employed,  and  they  had  fallen  into 
roguish  hands.  Sam  proposed  that  David  should 
be  asked  to  look  over  their  affairs  and  tell  them 
where  the  leakage  was:  "He  was  always  a  lile- 
hearted  chap,  and  I'd  trust  him,  Matt,  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  I  would." 

But  Matt  objected  to  this  plan.  He  said  Da- 
vid must  be  taken  through  the  mills  and  the  most 
made  of  everything,  and  then  in  a  week  or  two 
afterwards  be  offered  a  partnership;  and  Matt,  be- 


31 8  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

ing  the  eldest,  carried  the  day.  A  great  festival 
was  arranged,  everything  was  seen  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, and  David  was  exceedingly  interested. 
He  lingered  with  a  strange  fascination  among  the 
steam-looms,  and  Matt  saw  the  bait  had  taken, 
for  as  they  walked  back  together  to  the  old  home- 
stead David  said,  "You  were  ever  a  careful  man, 
Matt,  but  it  must  take  a  deal  of  money — you  un- 
derstand, brother — if  you  need  at  any  time — I 
hope  I  don't  presume." 

' '  Certainly  not.  Yes,  we  are  doing  a  big  busi- 
ness— a  very  good  business  indeed;  perhaps  when 
you  are  stronger  you  may  like  to  join  us." 

"I  sha'n't  get  stronger,  Matt — so  I  spoke 
now." 

Sam,  in  his  anxiety,  thought  Matt  had  been 
too  prudent ;  he  would  have  accepted  Da  vie' s 
offer  at  once ;  but  Matt  was  sure  that  by  his  plan 
they  would  finally  get  all  the  general's  money 
into  their  hands.  However,  the  very  clever  al- 
ways find  some  quantity  that  they  have  failed  to 
take  into  account.  After  this  long  day  at  the 
mills  General  Denton  had  a  severe  relapse,  and 
it  was  soon  evident  that  his  work  was  nearly  fin- 
ished. 

u  But  you  must  not  fret,  Jennie  dear,"  he  said 
cheerfully ;  "  I  am  indeed  younger  in  years  than 
you,  but  then  I  have  lived  a  hundred  times  as 


DAVIE.  319 

long.  What  a  stirring,  eventful  life  I  have  had  ! 
I  must  have  lived  a  cycle  among  these  hills  to 
have  evened  it;  and  most  of  my  comrades  are  al- 
ready gone." 

One  day,  at  the  very  last,  he  said,  "Jennie, 
there  is  one  bequest  in  my  will  may  astonish  you, 
but  it  is  all  right.  I  went  to  see  her  a  month  ago. 
She  is  a  widow  now  with  a  lot  of  little  lads  around 
her.  And  I  loved  her,  Jennie — never  loved  any 
woman  but  her.  Poor  Mary  !  She  has  had  a 
hard  time;  I  have  tried  to  make  things  easier." 

' '  You  had  always  a  lile  heart,  Davie  ;  you 
could  do  no  wrong  to  any  one. ' ' 

"I  hope  not.  I — hope — not."  And  with 
these  words  and  a  pleasant  smile  the  general  an- 
swered some  call  that  he  alone  heard,  and  trust- 
ing in  his  Saviour,  passed  confidently 

"  The  quicks  and  drift  that  fill  the  rift 
Between  this  world  and  heaven." 

His  will,  written  in  the  kindest  spirit,  caused 
a  deal  of  angry  feeling;  for  it  was  shown  by  it 
that  after  his  visit  to  the  Denton  Mills  he  had  re- 
voked a  bequest  to  the  brothers  of  ^20,000,  be- 
cause, as  he  explicitly  said,  "My  dear  brothers 
do  not  need  it;"  and  this  ^20,000  he  left  to  Mary 
Butterworth  Pierson,  "who  is  poor  and  delicate, 
and  does  sorely  need  it."  And  the  rest  of  his 


320  SCOTTISH   SKETCHES. 

property  he  divided  between  Jennie  and  Jennie's 
bairns. 

In  the  first  excitement  of  their  disappointment 
and  ruin,  Sam,  who  dreaded  his  brother's  anger, 
and  who  yet  longed  for  some  sympathetic  word, 
revealed  to  Jennie  and  her  husband  the  plan  Matt 
had  laid,  and  how  signally  it  had  failed. 

' '  I  told  him,  squire,  I  did  for  sure,  to  be  plain 
and  honest  with  Davie.  Davie  was  always  a  lile 
fellow,  and  he  would  have  helped  us  out  of  trou- 
ble. Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  that  ;£  20,000  would 
just  have  put  a'  things  right." 

"A  straight  line,  lad,  is  always  the  shortest 
line  in  business  and  morals,  as  well  as  in  geome- 
try; and  I  have  aye  found  that  to  be  true  in  my 
dealings  is  to  be  wise.  Lying  serves  no  one  but 
the  devil,  as  ever  I  made  out" 


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